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THE  CHRISTMAS   DAY.       P.   108. 


(C&.M1E0()B£ft§©IM*ffi® 


OUE  FOLKS  AT  HOME; 


OE, 


LIFE  AT  THE  OLD  MANOR  HOUSE. 


BY  EDWARD  TOLIVER. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  ENGRAVINGS, 

FROM  ORIGINAL  DESIGNS. 


JlhflaWpftfa: 

C.  Q.  HENDERSON  &  CO.,  AECH  &  FIFTH  STREETS. 
NEW    YORK:  —  D.   APPLBTON    &    CO. 

M  .  D  C  C  C .  L  V. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855, 

BY  C.  G.  HENDERSON  &  CO., 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States, 
for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


DEACON  &■  PETERSON,  PRINTERS, 
66  South  Third  Street. 


PREFACE. 

Under  the  guise  of  mere  entertainment  for 
young  persons,  the  reader  will  perceive  in 
this  volume,  a  steady  undeviating  purpose  of 
utility.  The  object  is  to  impress  upon  the 
forming  minds  of  youth  the  importance  of 
having  an  object  in  life,  and  that  object  a 
really  useful  one — an  increase  of  the  world's 
happiness,  by  each  person  furnishing  his  own 
contingent,  whether  large  or  small. 

The  intention  of  the  author  has  this  extent. 
The  reader  will  judge  respecting  his  success 


***     in  the  execution  of  his  work. 


(iii) 


CONTENTS. 

OUR  FOLKS  AT  HOME, 7 

THE  CHRISTMAS  HAMPER, 11 

LITTLE  CON,        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -  20 

UNCLE  PRATT, 47 

A  CURE  FOR  ENNUI,  -        - 51 

FRANK  WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY,    -  54 

MY  COUSIN  TOM, 73 

OUR  SERVANTS  AT  HOME, 79 

THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED,       ...  82 

MY  MOTHER'S  PHILOSOPHY, 103 

THE  CHRISTMAS  DAY, 106 

LITTLE  GREAT  MEN, 117 

CONSEQUENCE;  OR,  DO  YOU  KNOW  WHO  I  AM,      -  120 

JANE'S  PETS, 127 

JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS, 129 

USEFULNESS, 145 

THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL,        -        -  147 

A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY, 172 

1*  (v) 


VI  CONTENTS. 

MY  MOTHER'S  STORY, 196 

MARY'S  WHISPER, 197 

SISTER  MARTHA, 206 

WILLIE'S  PET, 221 

LITTLE  CAUSES  PRODUCE  GREAT  EFFECTS,  -        -  231 

" 'TIS  ONLY  A  PENNY," 233 

A  MAN  IS  A  MAN, 253 

HOW  THE  FISHMONGER  WAS  TAUGHT  CIVILITY,  -  256 

GREAT  INVENTIONS, 266 

THE  LYONESE  WEAVER, 268 

THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR,       -        -        -        -  282 

PITY  THE  IDIOT.         -        - 299 


OUR  FOLKS  AT  HOME. 

We  are  a  small  family,  our  folks  at  home,  strictly 
speaking.  That  is  to  say  the  immediate  family, 
who  reside  at  the  old  mansion  house,  under  the 
hill,  consists  of  my  father  and  mother,  my  sister 
Jane  and  myself.  But  there  is  no  end  to  our  family 
connexions,  uncles  and  aunts,  and  cousins,  and 
second  and  third  cousins,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ex- 
tensive circle  of  strongly  attached  personal  friends, 
which  extends  through  the  whole  of  a  pretty  wide- 
spread, though  thinly  inhabited  country  town. 

We  are  a  very  quiet  family,  rather  fond  of 
spending  the  long  winter  evenings,  in  reading, 
when  one  of  us  reads  aloud,  generally,  either  my 
father  or  myself,  while  my  mother  and  Jane  are 
engaged  with  their  feminine  work  of  sewing  or  knit- 
ting, except  upon  the  Sabbath  evening,  when  my 

(7) 


8  OUR  FOLKS  AT  HOME. 

father  generally  reads  us  a  sermon  or  a  portion  of 
Holy  Writ ;  and  we  conclude  the  evening  -with 
sacred  music,  Jane  performing  on  the  piano  forte, 
and  all  singing,  according  to  the  time-honored 
usage  of  the  family.  On  other  evenings  of  the 
week,  Jane  intersperses  our  reading  pleasures  with 
music  of  the  secular  sort,  in  which  she  is  a  very 
good  performer. 

My  father  has  been  quite  a  traveller  in  his  early 
days,  and  has  seen  some  service  in  the  wars  with 
the  British  and  the  Indians  ;  and  he  often  enter- 
tains us  with  very  lively  and  graphic  descriptions 
of  his  own  adventures.  His  brothers  were  all  killed 
or  lost  at  sea ;  and  when,  rather  late  at  life,  he  mar- 
ried and  settled  at  the  old  mansion  house,  as  he  had 
neither  brother  or  sister  nor  parents  surviving,  the 
whole  of  my  grandfather's  large  landed  estates  were 
his  inheritance. 

Though  we  live  in  a  plain,  quiet  way,  I  dare  say 
that  my  father  is  very  rich ;  and  might  go  and 
live  in  New  York  or  Philadelphia  in  a  very  dashing 
and  expensive  style,  without  exceeding  his  income. 
But  my  parents  have  both  seen  enough  of  the  gay 
world ;  and  prefer  a  retired  country  life,  to  all  the 
nonsense  and  glare  of  high  fashion  of  the  city. 


OUR  FOLKS  AT  HOME.  9 

For  myself,  I  am  studying  law  with  my  mother's 
brother,  Uncle  Pratt,  I  don't  take  to  it  very  kindly, 
I  must  confess,  and  I  hardly  expect  to  make  a  great 
figure  at  the  bar ;  but  my  father  wishes  me  to  study 
that  profession  in  preference  to  any  other.  I  have 
a  suspicion  that  his  principal  object  is  to  qualify 
me  for  taking  care  of  all  these  broad  acres  of  land, 
which  at  some  future  time,  a  great  while  hence,  I 
hope,  will  belong  to  Jane  and  myself.  At  any  rate  I 
am  determined  to  conquer  my  dislike  to  old  Black- 
stone  and  the  other  big  wigs,  and  make  myself  as 
good  a  lawyer  as  I  can. 

Our  little  circle  at  home,  though  rather  quiet, 
is  nevertheless,  exceedingly  genial.  We  have  a 
great  deal  of  sport  in  our  own  way.  Besides  the 
more  solid  reading,  we  indulge  what  is  humorous. 
Washington  Irving's  funny  stories  delighted  us 
quite  as  much  as  his  pathetic  ones ;  and  my  father 
is  rather  pleased  with  Fanny  Fern's  lively  sallies, 
although  my  mother  shakes  her  head  at  some  of 
them,  and  wonders  where  Fanny  learnt  a  great 
many  queer  things  and  odd  expressions  with  which 
she  seems  familiar,. 

A  considerable  portion  of  our  reading  library, 
(will  it  be  believed  ?)  consists  of  juvenile  books,  real 


10  OUR  FOLKS  AT  HOME. 

children's  books,  in  which  my  father,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  takes  especial  delight.  Edgeworth  and 
Barbauld  we  read  long  ago ;  and  latterly  my  father 
has  sent  a  standing  order  to  Messrs.  Henderson  & 
Company,  of  Philadelphia,  to  send  us  all  the  new  juve- 
nile books  that  come  out.  Besides  this,  we  receive 
a  number  from  London,  and  we  regard  with  special 
favor  those  magazines  which  have  a  "  Child's 
Corner." 

Two  stories  in  one  of  these  magazines  afforded 
us  so  much  pleasure  in  the  reading  that,  without 
any  fear  of  displeasing  .my  readers  I  copy  them 
here  before  going  on  with  my  story.  They  are 
called  "The  Christmas  Hamper,"  and  "LittleCon." 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HAMPER.      P.  11. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HAMPER. ' 

"  Papa  papa,  dear  papa,  a  Christmas-box,  please 
a  Christmas-box,  please,"  cried  Mr.  Loving's  little 
boy  and  girl,  as  they  came  dancing  round  him  on 
his  return  from  the  office. 

"Why,  you  little  simpletons,  it  is  not  yet  Christ- 
mas Day.  What  should  you  want  with  Christmas- 
boxes  before  the  time  ?  And  how  do  you  know  that 
I  shall  be  inclined  to  give  you  any  at  all?" 

"  Because  you  are  a  good  papa,"  lisped  Charley, 
the  younger  of  the  two  children,  a  flaxen  headed  ur- 
chin, of  some  six  or  seven  years  of  age.  "  Because 
you  are  a  good  papa,  and  we  are  going  to  be  very 
good  children." 

"Very  fine  indeed.  It  is  easy  to  make  promises." 
"What  is  all  this  about,  Miss  Claridge  ?"  said 
Mr.  Loving,  good  humoredly,  to  the  governess,  who 
at  that  moment  came  out  of  the  school-room.  "  Here 
are  your  pupils  clamoring  already  for  their  Christ- 

(11) 


12  THE  CHRISTMAS  HAMPER. 

mas-boxes.  What  they  intend  to  do  with  them  I 
cannot  imagine.  I  trust  you  mean  to  superintend 
the  disposal  of  the  half  dollars." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  half  a  dollar,  half  a  dollar  each,  papa 
means  to  give  us,  dear  Miss  Claridge.  Is  it  not, 
delightful  ?"  cried  Mary  and  Charley,  clapping  their 
hands  for  joy. 

"  Now  my  dears,"  said  their  father  more  seri- 
ously, "lam  cold  and  tired,  so  you  must  be  patient 
till  I  have  had  tea.  Miss  Claridge  will  then  be  so 
kind  as  to  bring  you  into  the  drawing-room,  and  we 
will  have  a  little  conversation  about  the  matter  of 
the  half  dollars." 

The  children  obeyed ;  and  when  they  had  eaten 
their  suppers,  the  governess  took  them  into  the 
drawing-room  to  their  papa.  The  conversation  that 
passed  must  have  been  tolerably  satisfactory,  for  it 
ended  in  their  kind  parent  giving  them  the  promised 
Christmas-boxes. 

The  next  morning  Mary  and  Charles  went  out 
with  their  governess,  and  made  various  purchases, 
which  were  quietly  and  somewhat  mysteriously  de- 
posited in  the  large  school-room  cupboard,  where 
they  kept  their  toys.  A  profound  silence  was  ob- 
served on  the  subject  of  these  purchases,  though  we 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HAMPER.  13 

must  say  that  this  silence  was  a  difficult  matter  to 
both  the  children,  especially  to  the  lively  little 
Charley.  But  the  next  day  was  Christmas  Eve, 
and  then  they  would  be  burdened  with  their  secret 
no  longer. 

But  now  we  must  invite  our  young  readers  to  a 
very  different  picture  from  that  presented  by  this 
brother  and  sister,  living  in  their  papa's  handsome 
house,  in  the  possession  of  every  comfort. 

It  was  the  afternoon  before  Christmas  Day,  and 
twilight  had  begun  to  close  over  the  foggy  streets 
of  the  little  country  town,  which  is  the  scene  of  our 
narrative.  In  a  poor  cottage,  in  a  narrow  court, 
situated  in  one  of  the  narrow  streets,  a  widow  and 
her  five  children  were  gathered  close  round  a  frugal 
fire,  shivering  with  cold.  Not  that  the  weather 
was  any  ways  inclement  for  the  season,  but  simply 
that  this  poor  woman  and  her  offspring  were  nei- 
ther sufficiently  clothed  nor,  fed ;  and  in  such  a 
strait  it  is  well  known  that  we  cannot  feel  comfor- 
table or  warm.  The  widow  was  patching  up  a  few 
articles  of  clothing,  that  her  little  ones  might  be  as 
decent  as  possible  for  the  morrow,  a  day  when  fes- 
tivity should  cheer  the  most  poverty-stricken.  The 
eldest  girl  was  helping  her  mother,  and  two  others 
2 


14  THE  CHRISTMAS  HAMPER. 

were  endeavouring  to  earn  a  few  pennies  by  knitting 
coarse  stockings. 

"We  shall  have  no  Christmas  pudding  to- 
morrow," sighed  the  widow.  "In  your  poor 
father's  time  we  never  went  without  a  Christmas 
pudding,  pinched  though  we  might  be." 

"  Oh,  mother  !"  said  little  Jemmy,  the  eldest 
boy,  "  there  are  such  beautiful  cakes  in  the  shop- 
windows,  arn't  there,  Tom  ?  How  I  should  like  a 
slice  !" 

"  Well,  well,  my  boy,  we  must  be  thankful  that 
we  have  a  bit  of  pig's  fry  to  eat  with  our  potatoes 
to-morrow.  Neighbor  Jones  is  very  kind.  I  am 
sure  I  don't  know  how  to  pay  her  back." 

"  I  can't  mend  this  so  that  it  will  hold  together, 
mother,"  said  Hannah,  the  eldest  girl.  "  It  will 
tear  out  again  as  soon  as  Jane  puts  it  on." 

"  And  I  have  not  a  bit  of  the  same  sort  left  to 
patch  it  with,"  said  the  mother.  "  Dear,  dear ! 
from  being  decent  sort  of  people,  we  shall  look 
like  beggars  soon." 

"  When  that  kind  Miss  Claridge  was  here  yes- 
terday, mother,  I  did  so  want  you  to  tell  her  how 
lost  you  were  for  an  old  shawl.  You  will  not  be  fit 
to  go  to  church." 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HAMPER.  15 

"No,  and  I  have  never  yet  missed  church  on 
Christmas  day.     It  was  an  old  habit  that — ." 

"  Hush  !"  said  Jane.  "  Was  not  that  a  knock?" 

"  I  believe  it  "was.  Neighbor  Jones,  perhaps. 
Come  in,"  cried  the  widow. 

The  door  opened  wide,  and  a  man  stepped  in, 
with  a  small  hamper  on  his  shoulder,  which  he 
lifted  to  the  floor. 

"I  suppose  I  am  right?"  he  said,  inquiringly. 
"  This  here  be  widow  Simpson's  ?" 

"  The  same,"  replied  the  widow.     "  But — ." 

The  poor  woman  was  about  to  utter  a  disclaimer 
as  to  the  ownership  of  the  hamper,  but  the  man 
hastily  retreated,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 
The  family  remained  transfixed,  and  staring  at  one 
another. 

"  There  must  be  a  mistake,"  at  length  said  the 
widow.  "  Who  should  send  us  a  present  like  that  ?" 

"Let  us  look  at  the  direction,"  said  Hannah. 
"'Mrs.  Simpson,  Duke's  Yard.'  It  is  for  you, 
mother,  sure  enough." 

"  It  strikes  me,"  said  Jemmy,  slily,  "  that  we  had 
better  look  inside.     Don't  you  think  so,  mother  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  !  mother,  do,  do  open  it !"  cried  all  the 
children. 


16  THE  CHRISTMAS  HAMPER. 

The  cord  was  soon  untied  (for  Mrs.  Simpson  was 
too  thrifty  to  cut  the  knot,)  and  the  lid  lifted, 
when  the  hamper  was  seen  to  be  full  of  small  par- 
cels. Each  child  made  a  dive,  and  joyfully  pro- 
claimed the  nature  of  the  prize  he  or  she  had 
brought  up. 

"  A  lump  of  suet,  mother  !"  cried  one.  "  A  bag 
of  flour!"  exclaimed  another.  "  Currants,  raisins, 
sugar,  and  spice !" 

"All  for  our  Christmas  pudding,"  said  the  mo- 
ther. "  Who  can  have  been  so  kind  ?  It  passes 
my  understanding." 

"  And  look!"  cried  Hannah.  "  Here  is  such  a 
nice  piece  of  bacon  !  Two  or  three  pounds  weight, 
I  am  sure,  mother." 
'  And  so  went  on  the  happy  creatures,  each  find- 
ing some  thing  more  wonderful  than  the  rest.  The 
general  delight  was  at  length  raised  to  its  utmost 
pitch  by  the  discovery  of  two  or  three  half- worn 
suits  of  boy's  and  girl's  clothing,  which  were  de- 
posited in  the  very  bottom  of  the  hamper. 

"Oh,  mother!  let  us  try  them  on,"  entreated 
Jemmy.     "  These  will  just  fit  me  and  Tom." 

They  only  fitted  Tom,  however;  and  Jemmy, 
notwithstanding  his  affection  for  his  brother,  looked 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HAMPER.  17 

rather  disappointed.  But  the  widow  remarked,  that 
now  Tom  was  rigged  out,  she  could  easily  beg  a  suit 
for  Jemmy,  at  one  of  the  houses  where  she  washed, 
and  where  there  were  several  big  boys. 

Jane  and  Kitty  also  tried  on  their  new  frocks 
and  petticoats,  which  presented  a  very  tolerable  fit. 
There  was  nothing  suitable  for  Hannah,  but  the 
motherly  little  damsel  did  not  care  for  this,  so 
pleased  was  she  to  behold  her  sisters'  joy.  They 
were  dancing  about  the  floor  in  their  delight,  when 
another  knock  was  heard  at  the  door  ;  and  Miss 
Claridge,  with  her  two  pupils,  warmly  clad  in 
cloaks  and  furs,  softly  lifted  the  latch  and  walked 
quietly  in. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  intruding,"  said  the 
young  lady,  "  but  my  pupils  and  I  are  going  to 
drink  tea,  with  a  friend,  and  as  it  is  yet  early,  we 
thought  we  would  give  you  a  passing  call." 

The  widow  begged  her  visiters  to  be  seated,  tell- 
ing Miss  Claridge  she  was  always  welcome  ;  and 
apologised  for  the  disorder  of  her  house  and  the 
freaks  of  her  children.  "But  we  have  just  had 
such  a  beautiful  present,"  added  the  poor  woman. 
"  Surely  an  angel  from  heaven  must  have  sent  it ; 

for  I  don't  know  who  would  think  of  our  wants." 
2* 


18  THE  CHRISTMAS  HAMPER. 

Meanwhile  the  little  Lovings  were  looking  on 
with  sparkling  eyes  ;  for  to  let  the  reader  into  the 
secret,  which  he  or  she  has  perhaps  already  anti- 
cipated, all  the  joy  of  this  afternoon  in  Widow 
Simpson's  poor  cottage  was  produced  by  the  two 
half  dollars  which  Mr.  Loving  had  presented  to  his 
children  as  Christmas-boxes ;  helped  out,  we  must 
confess,  by  a  considerable  addition  from  Miss 
Claridge's  purse. 

But  the  happy  family  never  knew  to  whom 
they  were  indebted,  for  it  was  the  aim  of  this  excel- 
lent young  governess,  to  teach  her  pupils  to  "  do 
good  by  stealth,"  and  simply  for  its  own  sake,  not 
for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  themselves  praised  and 
blessed  by  the  objects  of  their  bounty. 

"  Well,  young  ones,"  said  Mr.  Loving  to  his 
children  that  evening,  when  they  came  into  the 
drawing-room,  on  their  return  from  their  visit,  for 
half-an-hour's  chat  before  retiring  to  rest — "  am  I 
not  at  length  to  be  entrusted  with  the  secret  of  the 
Christmas-boxes,  according  to  promise  ?" 

Mary  and  Charles  smiled  and  blushed,  and 
looked  at  their  governess  to  speak  for  them ;  and 
Miss  Claridge,  who  never  wished  to  hide  any  thing 
from  their  kind  papa,  acquainted  Mr.  Loving  with 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HAMPER.  19 

the  use  to  which  the  half-crowns  had  been  put. 
"My  darlings,"  he  said,  as  he  bade  them  good 
night,  "believe  that  your  parent  can  never  expe- 
rience a  happier  moment  than  when  he  sees  his 
children  love  and  practise  benevolence  towards 
their  less-favored  fellow  creatures." 


LITTLE  CON. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allers  were  people  of  very  large 
property  resided  on  their  own  estate  in  one  of  the 
most  retired  and  beautiful  places  of  Kent.  Swell- 
ing hills,  verdant  with  hanging  woods,  surrounded 
the  grounds  on  every  side ;  and  the  sweetest  green 
lanes,  shaded  by  lofty-spreading  elms  and  oaks,  and 
whose  mossy  banks  were  studded  by  tufts  of  primroses 
and  violets,  besides  innumerable  other  natural  flow- 
ers, led  here,  there,  and  every  where — so  that  one 
might  wander  the  whole  summer-day  under  the 
most  grateful  shade,  and  make  up  besides  the  most 
lovely  bouquets  of  wild  flowers  that  eye  ever  beheld. 

This  worthy  couple  had  three  children — two  girls, 
Sophia  and  Emily — the  first  some  ten  years  old, 
the  other  rather  more  than  a  year  younger,  and 
one  son,  Conway,  or  "  Little  Con,"  as  he  was  usually 
called. 

These  children  had  been  very  well  brought  up 
(20) 


LITTLE  CON.  21 

by  their  judicious,  but  none  the  less  affectionate, 
parents,  whose  tenderness  they  repaid  by  trusting 
love  and  dutiful  obedience— not  but  that  they  had 
their  faults,  and  were  naughty  sometimes — for 
what  childern  are  quite  perfect  ?  Even  the  best  of 
grown-up  people,  as  well  as  little  children,  have 
ever  need  to  put  up  the  prayer  to  God  to  make 
them  better !  But  when  these  young  people  were 
not,  or  had  not  been,  quite  so  good  as  one  could 
wish,  they  not  only  innocently  asked  pardon  of  their 
parents,  but  knelt  also  humbly,  and  with  contrite 
hearts,  asked  forgiveness  of  that  great  Being,  who 
alone  could  enable  them  to  get  the  better  of  their 
disobedient  tempers,  and  make  them  become  a  bless- 
ing not  only  to  those  dear  parents,  but  to  every  one 
about  them. 

Now  Sophia  and  Emily  were  the  staunchest,  most 
inseparable  friends  ever  seen,  sharing  all  their  play- 
things in  common,  and  rarely,  if  ever,  disagreeing  ; 
so  that,  sometimes  Sophia  would  nurse  "  Jessie 
Matilda"  (Emily's  doll,)  a  whole  day,  lavishing 
upon  it  all  the  tenderness  she  would  have  given  to 
her  own  child,  the  while  Emily  would  take  the 
entire  responsibility  on  her  hands  of  looking  after 
the  comfort  and  general  welfare  of  "Anna  Maria" 


22  LITTLE  CON. 

(Sophia's  Doll ;)  so  that,  like  twin  streams,  these 
two  sisters  would  unite,  as  it  were,  their  little  cur- 
rents, and  glide  on  bubbling  and  sparkling  in  the 
sunshine,  in  the  most  charming  way  in  the  world. 

But  poor  Con  had  no  respect  at  all  for  dolls  :  he 
regarded  them  afar  off  in  silent  wonder,  not  un- 
mixed with  contempt.  He  could  not  at  all  comprehend 
how  his  sisters  could  possibly  prefer  nursing  and 
petting  these  dumb  effigies,  to  playing  at  horses ; 
and  as  he  justly  considered  these  Avaxen  beauties 
to  be  the  great  cause  of  this  want  of  taste,  as  well 
as  good-fellowship  on  his  sister's  part,  his  little  bile 
rose  against  the  dolls,  whom  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
heart  he  pronounced  to  be  "two  little  stoopids;" 
in  return  for  which  compliment,  Sophia  and  Emily 
assured  him,  in  no  measured  terms,  that  he  himself 
was  the  "little  stupid,"  who  had  not  good  sense 
enough  to  admire  the  "  two  most  darling  pets  in 
the  whole  world." 

On  one  occasion  only  had  Con  regarded  with 
any  thing  approaching  to  interest  one  of  the  tribe  of 
these  waxen  female  individuals — namely,  on  So- 
phia's being  presented  with  a  large  doll,  that  opened 
and  shut  her  eyes,  with  a  languid,  dieaway  grace, 
not  quite  unmixed  with  affectation  perhaps. 


LITTLE  CON.  23 

Con  was  a  very  strange  boy ;  lie  never  spoke 
much,  but  then  he  thought  a  great  deal,  and  the 
idea  that  entered  his  little  brain  on  this  occasion 
was.     What  would  this  languishing  young  beauty 
do,  were  he  to  introduce  a  finger  into  the  wonder- 
ful blue  eyes — into  one  of  them,  that  is,  and  then 
pull  the  string  ?    "If  she  does  it  then,"  thought  he, 
"ha  !"     So  the  very  instant  that  Con  found  him- 
self quite  alone  with  this  affected  young  lady,  he 
forthwith  eagerly  thrust  a  finger  into  one  of  her 
dieaway  orbs,  and  then  pulled  the  string  with  all 
his  might.     As  Con  breathlessly  anticipated,  she 
could  not  perform  this  mysterious  feat ;  but  this 
proved  to  be  the  least  considerable  result  of  his  ex- 
periment, for,  to  his  horror  and  consternation,  the 
lovely  blue   eye    itself  entirely  disappeared,   and 
left  nought  but  a  dismal  hole  in  its  place  ;  the  while 
the  other  blue  eye,  entirely  cured  of  any  remaining 
affectation,  answered  no  longer  the  guiding-string, 
but  kept  wide   open,  staring  with  all  its  might. 
Master  Con  suffered  for  this  little  trick  ;  though  he 
showed  great  contrition  for  his  misdeed,  it  still 
rankled  in  the  minds  of  the  sisters,  who  in  conse- 
quence kept  him  a  good  deal  aloof;  and  this  was 
not  very  kind  of  them,  though  natural,  for  they 


24  LITTLE  CON. 

ought  to  have  remembered  that  he  was  very  young 
(he  was  not  yet  five  years  of  age,)  and  had  no  bro- 
ther, and  consequently  looked  almost  entirely  to 
them  for  companionship  and  sympathy. 

However,  Con  managed  to  hide  his  wounded  feel- 
ings on  this,  as  on  every  other  occasion,  under  a 
considerable  assumption  of  dignity,  pouring  into 
Jane's,  the  nursemaid's  ears  alone  the  tale  of  his 
conceived  wrongs  and  sufferings — for  between  Jane 
and  Con  there  existed  a  strong  love  and  friend- 
ship.  Jane,  who  doated  on  him,  perfectly  under- 
stood his  meanings  and  strange  ways.  He  was 
never  naughty  with  his  dear  Jane — she  could  read 
as- in  a  book  every  look  and  revelation  of  his  large 
dark  eyes,  that  had  a  world  of  expression  in  them — 
for  Con  was  a  very  pretty  boy,  with  a  beautiful 
straight  nose,  dark  curly  hair,  and  dimpled  waxen 
cheeks  like  a  girl.  Jane  sang  him  to  sleep  each 
night,  or  told  him  some  pretty  tale,  till  slumber 
weighed  down  his  eyelids ;  and  at  Jane's  knee  it  was 
that  he  generally  said  his  prayers,  and  recited  his 
quaint  little  hymn. 

Above  all  things  Con  loved  to  stroll  with  her 
down  the  shady  lane  that  led  out  on  the  village  high 
road,  where,  seated  on  a  favorite  gate,  he  would 


LITTLE  CON.  25 

lean  one  little  elbow  on  her  shoulder,  and  resting  his 
little  head  on  his  hand,  watched  with  large  wonder- 
ing eyes  every  body  and  every  thing  that  passed 
along.  Nothing  escaped  him ;  without  moving  his 
head,  his  eyes  took  in  and  followed  every  thing 
with  immense  interest ;  though  a  quick-breathed 
"ha!"  was  the  only  exclamation  that  gave  token 
of  his  feelings  being  more  than  usually  excited. 

Now  and  then,  indeed,  he  would  raise  himself 
from  Jane's  shoulder,  and  sedately  inserting  his 
hand  into  one  of  the  little  fringed  pockets  of  his 
frock,  draw  out  with  the  most  profound  gravity  a 
paper  screw — like  some  quaint  old  gentleman  about 
to  indulge  in  a  quiet  pinch  of  snuff.  But  Con  had 
no  opinion  whatever  of  tobacco  in  any  shape — 
sugar  was  his  staple  commodity. 

In  his  book  of  trades,  the  sugar-baker  was  the 
one  that  most  entirely  met  his  approbation.  "  When 
I'm  a  man,  Jane,"  he  would  say,  "I  will  be  a 
sugar  baker  !  won't  we  have  nice  things  then !  Ha?" 
So  that,  of  course,  Con's  little  paper-screws  invari- 
ably contained  some  dainty  in  this  line ;  after 
selecting  and  introducing  which  between  his  own 
cherry  lips,  he  would  carefully  select  the  next  best 
bit,  and,  putting  out  his  little  hand,  proffer  it  to 
3 


26  LITTLE  CON. 

Jane's  every  whit  as  ruddy  lips,  which,  sucked 
away  also,  apparently  with  equal  relish  to  his  own. 
That  done,  and  the  screws  carefully  restored  to  his 
pocket,  he  would  resume  his  former  position  on 
Jane's  shoulder,  and  stare  away  with  increased 
energy  and  satisfaction. 

Now  came  papa's  birth-day,  and  it  fell  on  a 
lovely  sunny  day  in  June.  The  birth-day  of  each 
of  their  parents  was  a  very  important  affair  to  the 
children — a  holiday,  of  course ;  and  on  such  au- 
spicious occasions  they  invariably  came  in  to  break- 
fast Avith  their  Papa  and  Mamma,  dressed  in  their 
best,  each  bearing  a  little  bouquet  of  choice  flowers, 
to  be  presented  with  a  kiss,  and  every  fond  grate- 
ful wish  that  a  good  child  could  offer  to  the  dear 
and  respected  author  of  its  being. 

Well,  in  they  came,  as  usual ;  the  sisters  arrayed 
in  snowy  muslin  frocks,  with  broad  pink  sashes, 
and  hair  beautifully  curled,  and  little  Con  in  white 
blouse  trousers,  hair  nicely  done  up  with  sweet 
pomatum,  by  Jane's  tidy  fingers,  and  face  radiant 
with  happiness  and  Windsor  soap.  The  bouquets 
were  duly  presented ;  the  kisses  given ;  every 
kind  wish  wished ;  and  their  Papa,  after  fondly 
returning  their  caresses,  inserted,  with  an  important 


LITTLE  CON.  27 

smile,  one  hand  in  his  pocket,  from  whence  he  drew 
out  a  small  parcel  in  silver  paper,  which,  on  being 
unfolded,  revealed  no  less  than  five  bran  new  half-  < 
dollar  pieces,  two  of  which  he  presented  to  the 
girls,  and  one  to  Con,  with  the  desire  that  they 
were  to  spend  them  entirely  as  the  fancy  of  each 
should  dictate. 

"  Ha !"  exclaimed  Con,  turning  his  treasure 
round  and  round,  and  rolling  his  large  eyes  over 
it  with  immense  satisfaction,  "  0 !  thank  you, 
dear  Pa !"  and  off  he  went  to  exhibit  his  riches  to 
Jane,  who  exclaimed,  with  lifted  hands — 

"  My  goodness,  Con  ?  why  you  are  rich  now, 
quite  a  nabob  !" 

Now,  in  the  midst  of  breakfast-time,  while  they 
were  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  good  things 
which  loaded  the  table,  news  was  brought  that  their 
old  nurse,  Dame  Golding,  who  lived  in  a  small 
cottage  at  the  end  of  the  pretty  lane  that  led  to  the 
village,  was  very  ill  indeed,  and  of  course  wanted, 
as  they  well  knew,  all  the  little  comforts  and  deli- 
cacies which  tend  so  much  to  alleviate  the  sufferings 

o 

of  the  rich,  but  which,  alas  !  stern  poverty  denies 
to  the  wants  of  the  poor  and  needy ;  for  the  small 
annuity  which  the  worthy  Mr.  Allers  had  settled 


28  LITTLE  CON. 

on  the  poor,  but  excellent  old  woman,  was  most 
sadly  tax^d  to  meet  the  urgent  demands  of  her 
married  children  and  their  families;  so  that  the 
poor,  dear  old  nurse  pinched  and  screwed,  and  half- 
starved  herself,  in  fact,  in  order  to  supply  the 
wants  of  those  dearer  to  her  than  self. 

Papa  and  Mamma,  exchanged  looks  in  silence. 
Papa  went  on  quietly  reading  his  paper — Mamma 
as  quietly  and  silently  sipped  her  tea.  The  sisters 
exchanged  looks  also  ;  their  eyes  brightened — the 
color  mounted  to  their  cheeks — their  hearts  beat 
quicker,  as  though  some  good,  holy  thought  had 
passed  through  each  at  the  same  moment,  and  left 
the  glow  of  good  resolve  on  each  brow.  Hastily 
they  finished  their  meal ;  and  rising  with  one  ac- 
cord, they  flew,  hand  in  hand,  down  the  garden  to 
the  pretty  arbor,  where  they  had  left  their  child- 
ren, "Jessie  Matilda"  and,  "Anna  Maria,"  who, 
of  course,  were  also  decked  out  in  their  very  best 
attire,  to  do  honor  to  the  auspicious  morn. 

Each  snatched  up  with  breathless  excitement  her 
own  child.  "My  precious  love!"  exclaimed  So- 
phia, covering  Jessie  Matilda  with  caresses,  "  you 
must  go  without  the  new  frock  I  intended  buying  for 
you,  you  really  must,  my  sweetest  girl !  Poor  nurse  I" 


LITTLE  CON.  29 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Emily,  "  and  you,  too,  my  pretty 
Anna,  must  make  that  chip  bonnet  last  the  summer. 
I  cannot  afford  the  new  pink  hat  and  feather  which 
I  promised  you ;  so  'tis  no  use  of  pouting,  darling  ! 
make  up  your  mind  to  it  at  once,  like  a  good  child, 
and  wait  for  better  times  !" 

"Well,  do  you  know,  Emily,"  said  Sophia 
gravely,  "lam  not  sure  but  this  may  be  the  best 
for  them,  after  all ;  it  will  teach  them  to  bear  dis- 
appointments betimes — they  must  meet  with  it  in 
the  world,  you  know,  poor  things  !"  As  she  sighed 
and  gazed  mournfully  at  Jessie  Matilda,  whose  un- 
ruffled smile  seemed  to  give  firm  assurance  that 
she  was  fully  prepared  to  meet  not  only  that,  but 
every  other  disappointment  the  cold,  unfeeling  world 
had  in  store  for  her,  not  merely  with  perfect  for- 
titude, but  the  most  charming  affability. 

"  I  should  not  so  much  mind  it,"  returned  Emily 
with  a  deep  sigh,  "but  Charlotte  and  Louisa  Smith's 
children,  "Anastasia  and  Clotilda,"  have  got  en- 
tirely new  dresses — scarlet  satin,  with  blue  plumes 
in  their  hats  ;  and  our  poor  girls  must  feel  it — it  is 
but  natural  for  them  to  show  some  disappointment, 
poor  dears !" 

"Well!"  said  Sophia  loftily,  "if  Charlotte  and 
3* 


30  LITTLE  CON. 

Louisa  Smith  like  to  deck  out  their  girls  like  pea- 
cocks, let  them  ;  it  does  not  show  their  good  sense, 
let  me  tell  you  ;  for  my  part,  I  am  not  going  to  be- 
have so  injudiciously  as  to  bring  up  my  child  with 
notions  above  her  station  in  life,  I  can  assure  you." 
And  she  glanced  severely  at  Jessie  Matilda,  who 
certainly  had  rather  a  puffed-up  look. 

"Well,"  said  Emily,  "I  cannot  exactly  accuse 
dear  Anna  Maria  of  vanity ;  but"  (and  she  drew 
in  her  breath,  shook  her  head,  and  gazed  with  eyes 
full  of  maternal  solicitude  at  the  young  lady  in 
question)  "  I  must  freely  admit  that  she  is  getting 
of  late  a  leetle  too  forward  in  her  manners ;  but 
depend  upon  this,  miss,  that  I  will  not  put  up  with 
it  one  moment;  so  I  don't  deceive  you!"  (This 
was  said  in  a  tone  that  must,  had  Anna  Maria  pos- 
sessed one  spark  of  feeling,  have  gone  through  her 
like  pins  and  needles.) 

Having  deposited  once  more  these  young  ladies, 
who,  after  in  the  first  instance  being  smoothed  with 
caressses,  had  now  received  such  severe  reprimands, 
in  their  respective  places  against  the  wall  (where 
however,  they  kept  smiling  on;  in  this  respect 
most  assuredly  a  perfect  pattern  not  only  to  childhood 
but  to  grown-up  people,  of  all  ages  and  conditions,) 


LITTLE  CON.  31 

the  sisters  now  turned  to  each  other,  and  pulling 
out  their  new  bright  silver  coins,  gazed  at  them  a 
moment  with  admiring  looks;  while  Emily  ex- 
claimed, exultingly,  "  Two  dollars,  in  all,  dear ! 
Now  what  shall  we  do  for  dear  old  nurse  ?" 

"  Oh  I  can  tell  you,"  returned  Sophia,  eagerly  ! 
"  let  us  buy  her  first  a  pound  of  the  best  tea,  half 
green  (she  dotes  on  green  tea  you  know,)  and  a 
pound  or  two  of  fine  lump  sugar,  and  a  pound  of 
Mr.  Firkin's  delicious  fresh  butter,  and — " 

"And  a  nice  neck  of  mutton,  to  make  broth," 
broke  in  Emily;  "and  some  pearl-barley  for 
barley-water  at  night." 

"Yes,  that  will  do  beautifully,"  said  Sophia. 
"  Mamma  would  let  us  readily  have  the  sugar  and 
butter,  and  tea  too ;  but  let  us  do  it  ourselves,  eh  ?" 

Now  all  this  time  Con  had  been  an  attentive  lis- 
tener. He  stood  just  outside  the  arbor,  leaning  with 
his  back  against  a  tree.  Enter  Con  could  not ;  he 
wished  to  be  in  peace  that  day ;  he  wanted  to  bear 
no  malice  against  any  creature  or  thing  ! 

Con  felt  himself  to  be  a  person  of  immense 
wealth,  but  he  was  not  lifted  up  on  that  account ; 
on  the  contrary,  he  would  willingly  have  displayed 
his  riches  to  any  honest  dog  that  came  in  his  way. 


32  LITTLE  CON. 

He  had  done  so,  in  fact,  not  only  to  the  yard-dog 
Ponto,  but  even  to  the  black  cat  in  the  kitchen. 
But  he  dared  not  trust  himself  to  face  Jessie  Ma- 
tilda, and  Anna  Maria,  and  hope  to  keep  that  charm- 
ing equanimity  with  which  he  proposed  to  him- 
self to  conclude  the  day. 

The  very  caresses  and  endearing  words  which 
he  heard  his  sisters  lavishing  upon  the  "  two  little 
stoopids,"  as  he  profanely  called  them,  caused  his 
anger  to  rise  against  them.  But  at  the  latter  part 
of  the  conversation,  he  pricked  up  his  ears,  the 
color  mounted  in  his  cheek  ;  and  hastily  pulling 
out  his  half  dollar,  he  gazed  long  and  earnstly  at 
it,  with  round  open  mouth,  and  eager  breathings, 
like  one  absorbed  in  mental  speculation. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Master  Con  ?  Have 
you  been  listening  to  what  we  have  been  saying  ?" 
exclaimed  Sophia,  suddenly,  as  the  sisters  came 
from  out  the  arbor. 

"  Maybe  I  have,  and  maybe  I  haven't,"  returned 
Con,  with  considerable  dignity  of  manner,  inserting 
once  more  his  hands  in  his  little  pockets,  and 
staring  straight  before  him,  the  while  he  kept  kick- 
ing one  foot  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree. 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  half 


LITTLE  CON.  33 

dollar,  sir?"  demanded  Emily.  "  Buy  sugar-plums 
with  it?" 

"Perhaps  I  am,  and  perhaps  I  ain't?"  returned 
Con. 

"Come,  tell  us,  Master  Con,  what?"  asked 
Sophia. 

"Never  you  mind,  miss;  I  know,"  said  Con, 
importantly. 

"  Well,  come  along,  Emily,"  said  Sophia.  "  Let 
us  go  at  once;  the  sooner  the  better."  And  the 
sisters  clapped  their  hands  for  joy,  and  tripped 
lightly  towards  the  house  to  get  their  bonnets  ;  and 
presently  forth  they  sallied  again,  each  bearing  a 
basket  en  the  arm,  and  took  their  way  with  quick 
steps  down  the  shady  lane  that  led  past  Nurse  Gold- 
ing's  cottage  to  the  village.  Con  watched  them 
out  of  the  garden,  and  then  followed  down  the  lane ; 
keeping,  however,  a  convenient  distance  behind,  to 
avoid  being  seen.  He  saw  them  pass  nurse's  cot, 
and  go  up  the  street ;  and  the  instant  a  turning  hid 
them  from  sight  he  made  straight  for  Mistress 
Tilden's  shop,  whose  bow  window  revealed  a  tempt- 
ing display  of  cakes  and  tarts,  and  fruits  of  all 
sorts,  together  with  sugar-plums,  mintsticks,  secrets, 
taffy  and  what  not. 


34  LITTLE  CON. 

Con  entered  the  well-known  receptacle  of  sweets 
with  a  flushed  face,  and  in  a  state  of  considerable 
excitement ;  and  pulling  out  his  half  dollar,  ad- 
vanced to  the  counter  and  laid  it  down  with  all  the 
importance  the  case  required. 

"  My  gracious,  Master  Conway,  why,  you  are 
rich!"  exclaimed  the  worthy  woman;  "and  what 
do  you  want,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Ha !  I  want  ever-so-many  things,"  said  Con, 
in  ever-increasing  state  of  excitement.  "  How 
many  six-pences  will  there  be  in  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"  How  many  six-pences  in  a  half-a-dollar  ?  Why 
eight,  to  be  sure,  my  dear,"  returned  she. 

"Ha!  and  how  many  half-six-pences,  pray?" 
asked  Con. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  my  dear  ?  Twice  eight — 
how  many  do  they  make?     Count  up,  now." 

Con  held  up  both  hands,  and  counted  his  fingers. 
"  How  many?"  said  he,  giving  a  loose  guess  "  eight." 

"  No  ;  count  your  thumbs  in  too,  my  dear,  and 
that  will  make  it  right — sixteen,"  said  she. 

"  Ha — yes ;  then  I  want  sixteen  papers  of  things, 
please." 

"  Why,  Master  Conway,  you  are  not  going  to 
spend  it  all  at  once  ?     Why,  my  dear  boy,  you  will 


LITTLE  CON.  35 

make  yourself  quite  ill,"  exclaimed  the  woman,  in 
a  tone  of  great  surprise. 

"  Perhaps  I  am,  mum,  if  you  please,"  returned 
Con,  loftily,  rather  offended  at  his  right  to  do  so 
being  doubted. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  my  dear ;  but  does  your  Pa  know 
of  it,  eh?"  said  she  again;  hesitating  to  comply 
with  his  wishes. 

"  Perhaps  he  does  and  perhaps  he  doesn't. 
Never  you  mind,  mum.  I  know,"  returned  Con, 
with  immense  dignity,  now  justly  incensed  at  the 
woman's  pertinacity. 

"  Oh !  perhaps  you  are  going  to  have  a  little 
feast  ?     That's  it !     "Well,  then,  what  shall  it  be  ?" 

"  Make  me  up,  please,  three  cents  worth  of  ever- 
so-many  things,"  said  Con,  in  breathless  eagerness  ; 
secrets  and  mintsticks  and — and — burnt  almonds — 
and  carryaway- comforts  (meaning  carraway  com- 
fits)— and  rock  candy — and  peppermint — and — and 
every  thing." 

Con's  great  eyes  followed,  with  intense  eager- 
ness, all  the  woman's  proceedings. 

"  Stop,"  said  he  suddenly,  as  she  was  about  to 
do  up  the  first  packet,  "  give  me  a  bit  of  paper, 
mum;  a  good  sized  bit,  please."     And  having  re- 


36  LITTLE  CON. 

ceived  it,  Con  proceeded  with  great  solemnity  to 
make  a  small  deduction  from  the  burnt  almonds — 
for  his  own  peculiar  screw — laying  the  same  em- 
bargo on  each  packet  in  succession ;  which  when 
completed  he  stuffed  down  all  the  other  packets  till 
his  little  pockets  looked  almost  ready  to  burst  with 
repletion. 

"  Stop,"  said  he,  once  more,  as  the  .woman  was 
pocketing  the  half  dollar  piece  ;  "  let  me  look  at  it 
once  more,  if  you  please.  Ha !  don't  it  glitter, 
mum?"  and  Con  sighed  heavily,  as  he  turned- it 
round  and  round,  for  the  light  to  play  upon  it. 
But  just  at  that  moment  Con  saw  his  sisters  pass 
the  shop-window,  on  their  way  back,  with  quick 
steps,  laughing  and  chattering  away  in  high  spirits, 
with  their  full  baskets  on  their  arms  ;  and  hastily 
returning  the  bright  half  dollar  piece  to  the  rather 
alarmed  old  lady,  Con  left  the  shop,  and  cautiously 
followed  the  sisters.  He  watched  them  enter  Nurse 
Gol ding's  cottage,  and  then  made  straight  way  for  it 
himself. 

Con  stood  a  moment  on  tiptoe,  gazing  in  breath- 
less excitement  through  the  ,low  cottage  window. 
Nurse  Golding  was  sitting  in  her  old  arm-chair, 
propped  up  by  cushions,  before  the  fire  ;  for  though 


LITTLE  CON.  37 

it  was  summer  time  the  poor  old  creature  was 
shaking  with  fever-cold  like  the  ague.  He  saw 
how  his  sisters  opened  their  basket  and  presented 
their  little  offerings,  and  how  old  Nurse  lifted  up 
both  hands  in  joyful  surprise  and  gratitude,  and 
how  she  fondly  kissed  them  both  and  blessed  them, 
and  how  she  then  raised  the  corner  of  her  apron 
and  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes ;  and  Con's  ex- 
citement grew  too  painful  to  bear.  "  Ha  !  won't 
she  be  ever  so  much  pleased  at  what  I've  got  for 
her,"  thought  he  to  himself,  and  in  he  rushed. 

"Hollo,  Master  Con,  what  do  you  do  here?" 
exclaimed  Sophia  and  Emily  in  a  breath. 

"  Ha,  never  you  mind,  miss;  I  know,"  said  Con, 
bending  his  head  in  the  most  tremendous  dignity. 
"  Here,  Nurse,  dear,  ain't  I  got  something  nice  for 
you  ?  Ha,  better  Ijhan  nasty  tea  and  bread  and 
butter  !  See  here  (pulling  out  with  intense  eager- 
ness his  various  packets  of  sweets.)  There,  you 
just  taste  them — and  suck  some  of  this.  Just 
suck  'em  now.  Ha  !  ain't  this  nice  for  you.  Look  ! 
you  won't  mind  being  sick  now,  will  you,  Nursy, 
dear?"  And  Con  heaped  his  packets  into  the  lap 
of  the  astonished  old  woman. 

"  Oh,  you  little  goose,  you !  Do  you  think  poor 
4 


88  LITTLE  CON. 

Nurse  cares  for  such  trash  ?"  exclaimed  Sophia 
and  Emily,  holding  up  their  hands. 

"  What  am  I  a  little  goose  for,  pray  ?  "Won't  she 
like  them  ?  Won't  you,  Nurse,  dear,  eh  ?"  stuttered 
out  poor  Con,  indignantly,  knitting  his  brow  and 
clenching  his  little  hand. 

"  Oh  !  don't  find  fault  with  the  precious  boy, 
my  dears,"  exclaimed  the  nurse;  " bless  his  little 
heart,  he  meant  it  well.  But  dear  me,  dear  me,  my 
darling  little  boy,  what  am  I  to  do  with  all  these 
sweets  ? 

"  You  must  take  them  all  back,  and  suck  them 
yourself,  my  dear  ;  that  will  be  the  best  thing  to 
do  with  them." 

"No,  no,"  returned  Con,  resolutely,  "  you  must 
have  them,  Nurse,  dear  !  Why  don't  you  suck  'em  ? 
See."  And  Con  popped  one  into  his  own  mouth. 
"  You  try,  now  ;  it  is  so  good  !" 

"  Oh  you  little  booby,"  exclaimed  his  sisters ; 
"  what  will  Papa  say  when  he  hears  how  you've 
wasted  your  half  dollar  ?" 

"What  for,  pray?"  sputtered  Con  again,  quite 
red  in  the  face ;  and  stamping  his  foot  upon  the 
floor,  he  rushed  from  the  cottage,  and  made  oif 
for  home  as  fast  as  he  could,  a  prey  to  a  complica- 


LITTLE  CON.  39 

tion  of  emotions,  among  which  the  disagreeable  rather 
predominated. 

Sophia  and  Emily  were  to  dine  in  the  parlor,  Con 
and  Jane  were  to  dine  in  the  nursery ;  but  he  was  to 
come  in  to  the  desert.  The  sisters  during  the  dinner- 
time had  related  the  whole  history  of  the  morning's 
proceedings,  and  how  poor  Con  had  disposed  of  his 
half  dollar.  Con  had  not  seen  his  parents  since  his 
return  home  ;  into  Jane's  faithful  bosom  alone,  had 
he  poured  the  history  of  his  doings,  and  of  the  deep 
wrongs  he  had  suffered  in  consequence ;  so  that  when 
Con  made  his  appearance  in  the  dining  room  to 
partake  of  the  dessert,  he  was  in  a  very  uncertain 
state  of  mind. 

"  Come  here,  my  boy,"  said  his  father  to  him  on 
his  entrance  ;  and  Con  moved  silently  towards  his 
father,  and  was  placed  on  his  knee.  "Why,  Con — 
what  is  this  I  hear?"  began  his  father — "all  your 
half  dollar  gone — wasted  on  sweets  ?  that  is  not 
exactly  the  manner  in  which  I  wished  you  to  dispose 
of  it." 

"  Yes,  little  goose  !"  began  his  sisters  ;  but  Papa 
stopped  them,  at  once.  "  Hush  !"  said  he,  "  young 
ladies,  if  you  please — you  are  both  as  much  to  blame 
in  this  affair  as  poor  Con,  who  has  not  half  your 


40  LITTLE  CON. 

years.  If  on  the  one  hand  I  am  much  pleased 
with  the  manner  in  which  you  have  laid  out  your 
presents — however,  I  fully  expected  it  of  you — I  am 
not,  on  the  other,  at  all  satisfied  with  the  unkind 
manner  with  which  you  have  treated  him." 

Con  gave  a  deep  sigh  of  injured  feeling,  glanced 
reproachfully  at  his  sisters,  and  then  turned  his 
eyes,  brimming  with  tears,  once  more  to  his  father's. 
"  Why,"  continued  Mr.  Allers,  "  did  you  not  advise 
and  take  the  poor  little  fellow  into  your  counsels 
and  confidence,  pray  ?" 

"Because  he  did  not  ask  us,  papa !"  answered  the 
sisters,  but  in  some  confusion. 

"  Well,"  continued  Papa,  "  you  two  ladies  laid  out 
your  money  in  the  judicious  manner  which  your 
years  and  experience  assured  you  would  be  accept- 
able to  poor  sick  Nurse ;  and  poor  little  Con  laid 
out  his  money  in  the  presents  that  would  have 
proved  the  most  acceptable  to  himself — therein 
practising  the  blessed  rule,  of  'Do  unto  others, 
as  you  would  they  should  do  unto  you.' " 

"But  now,  my  boy!" — and  papa  kissed  poor 
Con,  who  made  up  a  little  face  to  cry,  but  thought 
better  of  it,  arresting  the  tears  by  a  good  sniff  or 
two — "you  must  understand  that  old  people  do  not 


LITTLE  CON.  41 

take  the  same  pleasure  in  sucking  sugar-plums  that 
little  boys  do  !  on  the  contrary,  they  care  nothing 
for  them — and  to  sick  people,  most  especially,  they 
are  quite  an  abomination.  Now,  if  my  little  Con  had 
taken  Jane  with  a  good  basket  on  her  arm,  with 
him,  and  had,  with  one  shilling,  bought  a  dozen  or 
more  of  those  fine  oranges  that  I  saw  in  the  grocer's 
window ;  and  another  shilling,  in  purchasing  a  dozen 
or  more,  new-laid  eggs,  and  the  other  money  on 
some  fine  lemons,  to  make  cooling  drink,  or  to 
squeeze  in  the  barley  water — then,  I  rather  fancy, 
Nurse  Golding  would  have  held  up  her  hands  quite 
in  a  transport  of  delight  and  gratitude." 

Con  gazed  up  in  his  father's  face,  whilst  speak- 
ing this,  with  a  look  of  intense  eagerness ;  and  then 
suddenly  scrambling  from  off  his  father's  knee,  he 
made  for  the  door  as  fast  as  he  could. 

"Holloa!  what's  that  for  ?  where  are  you  running 
to?"  demanded  Mr.  Allers,  in  some  surprise. 

"Oh,  I  know,  Pa!"  exclaimed  Con,  in  breath- 
less eagerness — "  I'm  going  to  old  Mother  Tilden's 
to  make  her  take  them  all  back,  and  give  me  my 
half  dollar,  to  buy  oranges  and  eggs,  and 

"No — no — Master  Con!"  broke  in  his  father, 

laughing  heartily ;  "  come  back,  sir,  directly ;  that 
4* 


42  LITTLE  CON. 

won't  do  ! — pretty  way  of  doing  business  ! — a  bar- 
gain's a  bargain  !  Poor  Mrs.  Tilden  is  not  to  blame 
and  what  makes  you  call  her  '  old  mother  Tilden  ?' 
that's  not  a  very  proper  manner  to  name  a  respect- 
able woman.  Besides,  she  is  not  old,  and  has  no 
child;  and  therefore  cannot,  with  any  degree  of 
justice,  be  termed  'old  mother  Tilden.'  Don't  you 
think  now  that  '  Mistress  Tilden'  would  sound  much 
better?" 

"Yes,  Pa,"  responded  Con. 

"  And,  with  regard  to  those  unlucky  sugar 
plums,"  continued  Mr.  Allers,  "  I  should  rather 
imagine  that  you  would  find  it  a  very  difficult 
matter  to  get  many  of  them  back,  Con  !  I  should 
say  that  by  this  time  the  greatest  part  of  them  have 
found  their  way  down  the  throats  of  nurse  Golding's 
little  grandchildren,  and  that  seems  to  me  the  very 
best  place  for  them.  But  what  is  this  that  makes 
your  pocket  stick  out  so?"  asked  his  father, 
suddenly  laying  his  hand  on  Con's  private  screw. 
"  Come,  Master  Con,  out  with  it,  and  let  us  have  a 
look  at  it :  it  feels  and  looks  rather  suspicious." 

Con  turned  very  red,  hung  his  head,  and  very 
reluctantly  obeyed  his  father  in  pulling  it  out. 

"Ho!    ho!    Master  Con!"  said  papa,  opening 


LITTLE  CON.  43 

the  rather  bulky  screw  ;  "  what,  you  laid  an  embargo 
on  each  packet  of  sugar  plums,  did  you  ?  That  was 
not  quite  the  thing,  I  think,  was  it  ?"  Con's  tell-tale 
eyes  glanced  from  his  father's  face  to  that  of  his 
mother,  and  those  of  his  sisters  ;  and  then  he  looked 
down  in  a  great  confusion  at  his  fingers. 

"  I  don't  think  that  your  sisters  reserved  any  part 
of  their  money  for  private  use — they  gave  all ;  and 
so  should  you  have  acted,  Con.  Were  I  to  make  up 
my  mind  to  give  you  a  slice  of  cake,  what  would 
you  say  to  see  me  take  a  good  bite  of  it  first — eh  ? 
But,  however,  we  must  not  be  too  hard  upon  you : 
you  will  know  better  in  time — indeed,  I  hope  that 
the  little  morning's  transaction  will  prove  a  useful 
lesson  to  you,  and  teach  you  not  to  do  things  in  too 
great  a  hurry,  and,  above  all,  make  you  seek  the 
advice  of  those  who,  being  so  much  older  and  more 
experienced  than  yourself,  must  know  better.  And 
now,  since  you  have  suffered,  after  all,  in  a  good 
cause — there — you  shall  try  again" — and  Mr.  Al- 
lers  pulled  out  another  half  dollar,  and  placed  it  in 
the  delighted  little  Con's  hand — "and  now,  off  with 
you ;  take  Jane,  and  a  good  basket,  and  let  us  see 
if  you  cannot  retrieve  your  good  name,  and  come 
home  in  a  more  comfortable  state  of  mind  to  tea." 


44  LITTLE  CON. 

Con  gratefully  kissed  his  father,  and  then  rushed 
to  impart  his  glad  tidings  to  his  friend  Jane,  in  the 
nursery,  who  very  joyfully  put  on  her  bonnet,  and, 
with  basket  on  arm,  soon  escorted  Con  to  the  village. 

Six  as  fine  oranges  as  ever  were  seen,  as*many 
large  snow-white  new-laid  eggs,  and  half-a-dozen 
splendid  lemons,  were  soon  stowed  away  in  Jane's 
basket,  as  the  product  of  the  half  dollar. 

Mrs.  Firkin,  to  whom  Jane  related  the  events 
of  the  day,  told  Con  that  he  was  a  good  boy,  and 
presented  him  with  an  extra  splendid  orange  for 
himself;  which  however,  Con,  full  of  high  resolve, 
thrust  into  the  basket  with  the  rest.  Then  away 
they  both  went  to  old  nurse's  cottage. 

Sophia  and  Emily  came  up  at  the  door,  eager  to 
witness  nurse's  delight,  at  the  same  moment  as  them- 
selves ;  and  the  very  first  scene  that  greeted  Con's 
eyes  on  entrance  was,  ever  so  many  of  nurse's  little 
grandchildren  (just  as  Papa  predicted)  sucking 
at  the  sweets,  which  gave  Con  considerable  delight. 

"Here,  nurse,  dear,"  exclaimed  Con,  rushing  to 
her — "  see,  we  have  brought  you  something  better 
than  sugar-plums  this  time — ha  !  ain't  they  nice  ? 
won't  you  like  to  suck  them,  eh?"  and  the  de- 
lighted Con  spread  out  his  stores  on  the  table. 


13—  / 

LITTLE  CON  AND  NURSE.       P.  45. 


LITTLE  CON.  45 

"  Oh,  my  precious  boy !  the  very  thing  that  I 
■was  longing  for  !"  exclaimed  Nurse,  holding  up  her 
hands  in  grateful  joy  and  astonishment ;  then  she 
kissed  Con  again  and  again,  and  wiped  her  poor  eyes. 
"  How  I  shall  enjoy  those  lovely  cooling  oranges 
in  my  long  feverish  nights  no  one  can  tell !  and  I 
will  have  one  of  these  new-laid  eggs  with  a  cup  of 
the  nice  tea,  that  the  dear  young  ladies  gave  me — 
and  some  of  the  nice  fresh  butter  and  home-baked 
bread  !  Oh,  how  good  you  have  been  to  me,  my  pre- 
cious children  !"  said  she,  wiping  her  eyes  and  look- 
ing up  gratefully  to  heaven — "  and,  oh,  how  good 
has  our  heavenly  Father,  who  remembereth  the  poor 
and  needy,  been  to  me  !  may  He  make  me  more 
grateful  for  these,  and  all  His  other  mercies.  And 
oh  !  may  he  look  down  and  bless  you  too,  my  dear, 
dear  children !  have  your  young,  innocent  hearts 
in  His  keeping !  prosper  in  them  those  precious 
seeds  of  virtue,  truth,  and  religion,  which  your 
good  parents  have  striven  to  plant  there !  may  he 
make  you  a  rich  blessing  not  only  to  them  but  to 
others  !"  And  poor  old  Nurse  buried  her  face  in 
her  apron,  and  wept — the  while  the  sisters  meekly 
bowed  their  heads,  and  whispered — "Amen  !" 

As  for  little  Con,  his  feelings  became  too  many 


46  LITTLE  CON. 

for  him  ;  and  making  a  rush  to  the  door,  he  started 
off  home  again  at  a  tremendous  pace,  without  Jane, 
or  any  one,  in  order  that  he  might  be  home  the  first, 
and  so  have  the  pleasure  of  recounting,  to  Papa 
and  Mamma,  the  whole  affair. 


UNCLE  PRATT.      P.  47. 


UNCLE  PRATT. 

I  have  already  referred  to  ray  Uncle  Pratt.  He  is 
my  mother's  favorit^  brother,  a  very  excellent, 
good  natured  old  bachelor,  who  spends  so  much  of 
his  time  at  our  house,  that  he  may  be  very  properly 
classed  among  Our  Folks  at  Home.  Indeed,  I  believe 
he  feels  more  at  home  in  the  old  mansion  house, 
than  any  where  else. 

Uncle  Pratt  is  very  fond  of  children.  I  have 
heard  an  old  tradition  of  the  family  that  a  cruel 
disappointment  in  early  life,  is  what  made  him  an 
old  bachelor.  His  lady-love  died  ;  and  Uncle  Pratt 
is  true  to  her  memory.  But  his  affectionate  dispo- 
sition finds  abundant  exercise  among  the  children 
of  his  relations  and  acquaintance.  In  his  house 
one  room  is  actually  set  apart  and  consecrated  to 
his  juvenile  friends.  It  is  a  complete  museum  of 
curious  toys  and  giro  cracks,  such  as  children  de- 
light in.  Curious  images  of  Turks  and  soldiers  that 

(47) 


48  UNCLE  PRATT. 

sit  or  stand  on  a  musical  box  and  move  their  limbs 
by  clock  work  while  the  music  is  playing  ;  trees  full 
of  beautiful  birds  that  fly  about  and  chirp,  when  the 
machinery  is  wound  up  and  set  a-going ;  stuffed 
birds  and  squirrels  and  other  animals  set  upon  pe- 
destals; glass  cases  full  of  all  sorts  of  brilliant 
beetles  and  bugs  and  butterflies  ;  precious  carvings 
in  ivory  from  China ;  lacquered  boxes,  from  Japan ; 
images  of  Hindoo  gods  and  goddesses,  carved  in 
soap  stone,  from  Calcutta;  a  splendid  collection 
of  marine  shells  from  the  Oriental  countries  and 
the  Pacific  Ocean ;  with  other  curiosities,  too  nu- 
merous, as  the  advertisements  say,  to  mention. 

This  great  room  with  its  contents,  is  the  de- 
light of  my  Uncle  Pratt  to  show  to  all  his  acquaint- 
ances on  some  Saturday  afternoon,  or  in  the  school 
holidays.  Such  occasions  he  enjoys  quite  as  well 
as  the  children,  showing  and  explaining  every  thing, 
lifting  up  the  very  little  children  on  his  shoulder, 
to  see  the  birds  on  the  high  shelf,  setting  all  the 
musicb  oxes  agoing,  the  birds  singing,  the  Turks 
gesticulating,  and  the  soldiers  performing  the  ma- 
nual exercise.  A  holiday  at  Uncle  Pratt's  is  a 
real  holiday  and  no  mistake. 

When  Uncle  Pratt  visits  the  house  of  his  friends 


UNCLE  PRATT.  49 

where  there  are  little  children,  his  pockets  are 
filled  with  gingerbread  and  bonbons  ;  and  his  en- 
trance among  them  is  always  the  signal  of  a  frolic. 
In  parties  of  pleasure,  pic-nics,  boatings,  and 
"visits  to  remarkable  places,"  he  always  accompa- 
nies young  people  of  a  larger  growth,  and  acts  as 
"  the  good  genius,  who  turns  all  things  to  pleasure." 
Uncle  Pratt  is  not  unlike  the  "Uncle  Jamie," 
who  is  celebrated  by  a  Scottish  poet  in  the  follow- 
ing lines. 

UNCLE  JAMIE. 

Weel  the  bairns  may  mak'  their  mane, 
Uncle  Jamie's  dead  an'  gane  ! 
Though  his  hairs  were  thin  an'  grey, 
Few  like  him  could  frisk  an'  play. 
Fresh  and  warm  his  kindly  heart 
Wi'  the  younkers  aye  took  part ; 
An'  the  merry  sangs  he  sung 
Charm'd  the  hearts  o'  auld  an'  young. 

Uncle  Jamie  had  a  mill, 
An'  a  wee  mouse  it  intill, 
Wi'  a  little  bell  to  ring, 
An'  a  supple-jack  to  fling  ; 


50  UNCLE  PRATT. 

An'  a  drummer,  rud-cle-dud, 
On  a  little  drum  to  thud, 
An'  a  mountit  bold  dragoon, 
Eidin'  a'  the  lave  aboon. 

When  the  mousie  drave  the  mill, 
Wi'  the  bairns  the  house  would  fill ; 
Such  a  clatter  then  began  ! 
Faster  aye  the  mousie  ran  ! 
Clinkum,  clankum  !  rad-cle-dad  ! 
Flang  the  supple-jack  like  mad ! 
Gallop  went  the  bold  dragoon, 
As  he  would  gallop  owre  the  moon  ! 

Some,  wha  aiblins  think  they're  wise, 
Uncle's  frolics  may  despise  ; 
Let  them  look  as  grave's  they  may, 
He  was  wiser  far  than  they. 
Thousands  a'  the  warld  would  gi'e 
Could  they  feel  as  blythe  as  he. 
Weel  the  bairns  may  mak'  their  mane, 
Uncle  Jamie's  dead  an'  gane  ! 


A  CURE  FOR,  ENNUI. 

Sitting-  with  my  uncle  Pratt,  one  day,  in  his 
office,  I  happened  unguardedly  to  complain  of  ennui. 
The  old  gentleman  deliberately  took  off  his  spec- 
tacles, and  laid  down  the  book  he  was  reading,  and 
turning  his  chair  round,  so  as  to  look  me  full  in  the 
face,  said, 

"  Edward,  you  must  learn  to  call  things  by  their 
right  names.  You  are  suffering  just  now  from  a 
feeling,  which  fashionable  people  call  ennui,  but 
which  common  people  call  laziness.  In  most  cases,  this 
proceeds  from  the  want  of  a  good,  strong  motive, 
and  an  earnest  purpose.  You  must  not  suffer  this 
feeling  to  gain  upon  you.  Otherwise  it  will  become 
the  bane  of  your  life.  I  must  tell  you  frankly, 
that  you  are  in  very  great  danger  of  becoming  a 
lazy  man.  You  will  inherit  much  property,  and  if 
you  yield  yourself  in  early  life  to  a  feeling  of  self- 
indulgence,  it  would  be  fatal  to   your  happiness. 

(51) 


52  A  CUKE  FOR  ENNUI. 

You  should  endeavor  to  look  beyond  yourself,  and 
make  it  a  serious  object  to  promote  the  happiness 
of  others.  I  can  assure  you  that  this  is  the  only 
sure  way  to  be  always  cheerful,  and  always  happy." 

"  How  shall  I  begin,  uncle"  said  I. 

"As  you  are  a  reasonable  being,"  he  replied, 
"  begin  by  investigating  the  matter  fully  and  satisfy- 
ing yourself  that  what  I  have  been  telling  you  is  true. 
Having  thus  formed  a  theory  of  your  own  upon 
the  subject,  you  will  find  no  difficulty  whatever  in 
beginning  to  put  it  in  practice.  You  will  of  course 
recollect  that  charity,  which  is  another  name  for 
true  and  active  benevolence,  begins  at  home  ;  and 
you  will  set  yourself  earnestly  about  promoting  by 
every  means  in  your  power  the  happiness  of  your 
own  immediate  family,  the  "  Folks  at  Home." 

"  My  father,  for  example,"  said  I. 

"Yes,"  said  my  uncle,"  you  know  his  heart  is 
set  upon  your  becoming  an  able  lawyer,  and  you 
will  please  him  by  studying  with  all  your  might 
during  your  regular  study  hours ;  and  showing  a 
real  interest  in  the  pursuit,  whenever  you  converse 
with  him." 

"My  mother." 

"  Your  own  heart  will  instruct  you  how  to  please 


A  CURE  FOR  ENNUI.  53 

her  by  those  thousand  little  delicate  attentions  at 
home,  which  are  so  pleasing  to  a  loving  mother." 

"My  sister." 

"  Jane  is  already  proud  of  your  talent  and  ac- 
quirements. She  will  participate  in  the  pride 
which  your  father  and  myself  will  feel  in  seeing 
you  become  a  really  useful,  hard-working,  earnest 
man.  But  there  are  many  details  of  attention  at 
home  which  will  readily  present  themselves  when 
you  are  on  the  look  out  for  them." 

"I  will  commence  forthwith,"  said  I.  It  occur- 
red to  me,  on  the  instant,  that  not  only  was  my 
uncle's  theory  strictly  true ;  but  that  he  was 
himself  a  living  exemplar  of  its  truth.  For  I  had 
never  known  a  person  more  thoroughly  devoted  to 
the  happiness  of  others,  or  one  who  seemed  always 
so  happy  and  cheerful  himself. 

"Perhaps,"  saidmyuncle,  "you  would  like  to  read 
a  little  narrative,  written  by  an  English  friend  of 
mine,  to  illustrate  the  cure  of  ennui." 

And  he  handed  me  the  story  which  I  now  give 
to  my  readers.     It  is  entitled  "  Frank  Weston  and 
the  Italian  Image  Boy." 
5* 


FRANK  WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN 
IMAGE  BOY. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  -will  not  pick  your  pocket  by  pre- 
scribing medicine  for  you  which  you  do  not  need ; 
but  I  suppose  I  must  not  leave  you  without  a  pre- 
scription of  some  kind.  Now  as  you  are  in  good 
health,  and  I  suspect  that  the  weakness  and  fatigue 
of  which  you  complain  arise  from  want  of  exertion, 
I  would  advise  plenty  of  exercise.  You  should  ride, 
walk,  or  run  if  you  will,  but  not  sit  still.  If  you 
were  in  yonder  drayman's  place,  you  would  have 
no  more  squeamish  days  or  restless  nights.  You 
must  not  be  inactive,  or  you  may  really  bring  on 
that  which  at  present  does  not  exist — serious  disease. 

"  Do  you  think  a  tour  on  the  continent  would  be 
the  thing,  sir?  only  I  always  miss  English  comforts 
so  terribly  abroad.  No,  I  have  a  great  mind  to  take 
a  walking  tour  through  the  Highlands,  since  you  re- 
commend exercise.     What  say  you,  sir  ?" 

"  For  what  object  ?" 
(54) 


WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY.         55 

"  For  health  and  amusement,  doctor.     Is  it  not 
just  what  you  have  been  suggesting?" 

"  I  had  not  quite  finished  my  prescription  when 
you  spoke.  I  knew  your  father ;  and  since  you 
have  flattered  me  by  saying  that  you  came  from 
town  for  the  purpose  of  asking  my  advice,  because 
of  your  confidence  in  my  judgment,  I  will  use  the 
privilege  of  a  friend  as  well  as  a  physician,  and  I 
tell  you  plainly  that  I  fear  your  disorder  will  not 
be  removed  by  a  trip  to  Scotland,  or  a  walking 
tour  through  the  Highlands.  I  have  no  immediate 
fear  for  your  body,  but  there  is  a  kind  of  mental 
paralysis  with  which  you  are  threatened,  against 
which  I  conceive  it  to  be  my  duty  to  warn  you. 
You  have  let  me  into  the  secret  of  your  malady — 
a  malady  usually  designated  by  a  word  for  which 
we  have  no  adequate  translation.  It  is  ennui. 
But  ennui  has  a  cause.  You  are  living  without  an 
object — is  it  not  so  ?  You  have  had  enough  money 
spent  on  your  education  ;  but  you  are  making  no 
use  of  it.  Forgive  me,"  glancing  at  a  novel  that 
lay  on  the  table,  "  I  see  those  break  fast-table  compa- 
nions at  more  than  one  house  I  visit ;  but  novel 
reading  is  only  one  branch  of  literature,  and  but  an 
inferior  branch." 


56         WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY. 

The  young  man  sighed. 

"I  believe  you  are  right  doctor,  and  I  scarcely 
know  whether  one  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  one's 
father  for  leaving  one  independent  of  all  exertion. 
I  begin  to  think  that  there  may  be  a  greater  evil 
than  that  of  being  obliged  to  earn  one's  living.  If 
there  were  any  thing  to  day,  for  instance,  that  I 
must  do — if  any  being  in  the  universe  were  depen- 
dent on  my  exertions — I  believe  I  could  exert  my- 
self; but  to  tell  the  truth,  doctor,  the  day's  work 
with  me  seems  scarcely  worth  the  trouble  of  dress- 
ing for.  As  to  this  London  life,  I  am  sick  to  death 
of  it.  The  ball,  the  concert,  and  the  opera ;  the 
great  dinner  parties,  with  their  much  wine  and  little 
sense  ;  the  more  snug  tete-a-tete  with  fellows  jovial 
enough,  but  who  care  no  more  for  you  than  a  snap 
of  the  fingers,  and  not  so  much  as  for  a  bottle  of 
port ; — all  these  are  very  unsatisfactory.  There  is 
nothing  solid  left  after  they  are  over ;  such  life  seems 
like  the  froth  on  trifle  aud  syllabub ;  it  tastes  sweet 
and  makes  a  great  show,  but  it  does  not  satisfy  the 
appetite." 

The  physician  gazed  earnestly  on  his  youthful 
speaker,  and  sighed  in  his  turn.  He  knew  the 
human  heart  better  than  to  suppose  that,  with  all 


WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY.  57 

this  disgust  and  world-weariness,  the  young  man's 
heart  was  willing  to  give  up  the  world.  He  remem- 
bered that  slaves  had  been  known  to  hug  their  chains. 

"  Come  and  spend  this  afternoon  with  me ;  or, 
rather,  come  in  at  one  o'clock  and  take  luncheon 
with  us.  I  would  then  ask  for  your  company  when 
I  go  my  second  round  of  visits.  But  I  must  not 
stay  now,"  said  he ;  and  hastily  taking  leave  of  his 
friend,  he  passed  into  the  hall. 

A  pale,  thin,  and  slightly  deformed  girl  stood 
there,  whose  constant  cough  had  reached  the  doc- 
tor's ears,  while  talking  to  Frank  Weston,  and  al- 
though the  handle  of  the  door  was  in  his  hand,  he 
paused  to  look  at  the  stooping  figure  before  him 
Their  eyes  met,  and  she  dropped  him  a  low  curtesy. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  know  your  face.  Indeed, 
I  think  I  do ;-  yet  it  can  scarcely  be  the  same." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  called  on  you  about  a  twelvemonth 
since.  I  have  not  forgotten  your  kindness,  if  you 
have." 

"  Really ;  oh,  you  used  to  employ  yourself  in 
shirt-making." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  did  you  take  my  advice,  and  go  to  service  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  I  could  not." 


58  WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY. 

"  How  is  your  health  then  ?" 

"No  better,  sir;  I  have  that  same  old  cough.  "- 

"  How  is  it  that  you  have  never  been  to  see  me  ?" 

"  It  would  have  been  uselessly  robbing  you  of 
your  time,  since  I  could  not  take  your  advice,  sir." 

"  Call  on  me  before  nine  to-morrow ;  come  quite 
early;"  and  he  jumped  into  his  carriage,  which 
rolled  quickly  away,  leaving  Frank  Weston  in  a 
state  of  wonder,  not  unmixed  with  contempt,  for 
the  interest  that  this  first-rate  physician  manifested 
in  a  poor  shirt-maker.  He  wondered  that  he,  for 
whose  morning  call  many  a  fine  lady  and  rich  gen- 
tleman were  waiting  in  anxious  expectancy,  should 
have  wasted  time  in  talking  to  a  poor  miserable- 
looking  little  shirt-maker.  But  the  shirt-maker 
had  business  with  Frank  ;  and  hearing  her  speak 
as  he  was  going  up-stairs,  he  turned  towards  her 
and  inquired  her  errand. 

"lam  come,  sir,  to  say,  that  I  hope  you  will 
excuse  my  not  having  finished  your  shirts.  I  am  the 
person,  sir,  that  Mrs.  Hally,  the  lady  of  this  house, 
was  good  enough  to  recommend  to  you,  and  I  came 
to  say  that  I  could  not  finish  your  work.  I  hoped 
to  have  done  so,  but  have  been  prevented." 

"  Well,  pray  how  long  do  you  mean  to  keep  me  a 


WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY.         59 

waiting  ?  This  is  always  the  way  with  your  coun- 
try hands,"  said  he,  turning  to  Mrs.  Hally,  the 
landlady,  who  was  looking  at  Bessie  Briant  in  deep 
commiseration ;  in  London  I  should  have  had  these 
shirts  a  week  ago." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  sir ;  I  have  not  yet  had  them 
a  week  in  hand ;  the  pattern  is  so  full  of  work,  the 
material  is  so  very  fine,  and — " 

"  Well,  if  you  can't  do  them,  send  them  home  to 
me,  and  I  will  find  some  one  who  can.  It  is  quite 
absurd;  you  had  better  not  have  undertaken  them. 
Send  them  home,  done  or  undone  ;  I  cannot  wait." 

"  Sir,  two  of  them  are  nearly  finished ;  if  you 
wait  till  to-morrow  night,  I  will  send  home  those 
two,  if  possible,  all  ready  to  put  on." 

"  I  cannot  have  any  ifs.  Will  you  promise  to 
send  them  home  ? 

"  I  will,  sir ;"  and  the  girl  left  the  house. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Hally  to  her  daughter 
as  they  went  up-stairs  together  to  make  Mr.  Wes- 
ton's bed,  and  "  rightside,"  as  she  called  it,  his 
room — "  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Weston  ever  looked  at 
the  stitches  in  one  of  his  fine  shirts,  or  even  calcu- 
lated on  the  amount  of  labor  that  such  a  shirt 
must  require.     Poor  girl !" 


60  WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY. 

Poor  girl,  indeed  !  she  is  but  one  of  a  large  class 
of  slaves,  and  quite  of  the  better  sort  too,  whose 
lives  are  too  often  sacrificed  to  the  love  of  bargains, 
to  the  curse  of  cheap  dress  and  ill-requited  labor. 
Those  advertisements  of  cheap  shirts  should  make 
every  woman's  heart  ache  who  knows  how  many 
weary  hours  their  sisters  are  doomed  to  spend  over 
that  one  article  of  raiment,  to  be  paid  alas,  how  ill ! 

Bessie  could  have  wept  on  her  homeward  path, 
but  weeping  would  have  hurt  her  eyes,  and  they 
already  felt  weak  and  aching.  She  must  work  all 
day,  and  she  feared  all  night  too,  to  fulfill  her  en- 
gagement, or  she  must  forfeit  her  bitterly  needed 
payment.  So  she  went  into  the  house  and  up  into 
her  chamber,  where  she  would  be  quiet  and  unin- 
terrupted by  her  little  brothers  and  sisters,  took  off 
her  bonnet,  and  began  work. 

"Work,  work,  work, 

In  the  dull  December  light ; 
And  work,  work,  work, 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright ; 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  her  with  the  Spring. 


WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY.         61 

Oh,  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet, 
With  the  sky  above  her  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  her  feet ; 
For  only  one  short  hour, 

To  feel  as  she  used  to  feel, 
Before  she  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal." 

And  oh,  that  Frank  Weston  could  have  heard 
the  short,  quick  cough,  the  weary  sigh  of  fatigue, 
and  could  have  seen  the  faintne'ss  and  the  gasping 
for  breath  of  the  poor  seamstress  over  his  fine  shirts  ! 

Dr.  L.  was  waiting  luncheon  for  him  when  he  ar- 
rived, and  the  meal  was  hastily  dispatched. 

"  We  must  be  quick.  I  have  only  an  hour  and 
a  half  for  this  round. 

"  But  are  they  patients  ?  because  I  am  no  doctor." 

"  Precisely  on  this  account  I  take  you.  Such 
scenes  as  we  shall  pass  through  to  day  are,  alas  ! 
no  novelties  to  physicians." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  expression  of  Frank 
Weston's  face,  as  they  entered  a  very  dirty  and  low 
part  of  the  city,  near  the  river  side.  It  was  one 
of  extreme  and  undisguised  disgust.  They  were  on 
foot  too,  and  Frank's  step  was  beginning  to  falter, 
6 


62  WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY. 

when  they  suddenly  stopped  at  the  door  of  one  of 
the  better  sort  of  lodging  houses.  The  door  was 
open,  and  the  physician  and  his  companion  entered 
unobserved.  They  stopped  at  a  room  on  the  right 
hand  side,  and  entered  at  once,  after  having 
knocked. 

It  was  a  large,  dreary,  scantily-furnished  apart- 
ment, at  the  extreme  end  of  which  an  old  woman 
sat  knitting,  and  a  girl  reclined  in  a  chair,  appa- 
rently asleep.  She  looked  as  though  she  might 
never  awake  from  that  sleep,  so  thin  and  worn 
was  her  sharp  contracted  face. 

"  Is  there  any  change  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  I  did  not  see  any ;  she  is,  maybe,  a 
little  weaker,  but  as  I  say,  poor  dear,  she  may  last 
to  the  fall.     Hush  !  she  is  waking." 

"  Scarcely  so  long,  mother,  I  think." 

Dr.  L.  gently  took  her  hand,  and  after  asking 
her  a  few  common  questions,  inquired  if  she  felt 
the  wine  any  comfort  to  her.  The  girl  blushed, 
and  the  mother  being  suddenly  taken  with  an  idea 
that  some  one  knocked,  made  the  best  of  her  way 
to  the  door,  whilst  the  girl  said  hurriedly  :  "Many 
thanks  to  you ;  but  no  more  wine — I  am  past  hope, 
you  know,   sir;  and  what  are  a  few  days  to  one 


WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY.  68 

■who  is  ready  for  Eternity  ?  Do  not  send  me  any 
more."  And  she  looked  earnestly  and  with  deep 
meaning  into  the  doctor's  face. 

"  You  are  not  past  the  Bible  I  hope  ?"■  said  he, 
looking  round  for  the  volume  that  usually  lay  by 
her  side.  The  girl's  bosom  heaved,  and  he  said  lit- 
tle more.  "You  would  like,  perhaps,  that  some  one 
should  come  and  read  to  you." 

"Yes,  oh  yes!" 

"  I  will  try  and  have  that  wish  gratified ;  mean- 
time, remember  those  words  of  the  dying  mission- 
ary which  I  heard  you  say  you  loved  to  think  of. 
'  There  is  but  one  thing  needful  on  a  sick  or  on  a 
death  bed,  and  that  is  to  feel  one's  arms  round  the 
cross.'  " 

She  smiled  a  grateful  assent,  and  they  left  the 
room ;  but  Frank  Weston  said  that  her  anxious, 
longing  expression  of  face,  when  speaking  about  the 
wine,  he  should  never  forget. 

"There  is  a  sad  history  belonging  to  that  girl. 
It  is  a  case  in  which  merely  putting  your  hand  into 
the  pocket  does  no  good,  nay,  it  does  positive  harm. 
That  girl's  mother  loves  drink  better  than  her  own 
child.  She  has  perilled  her  soul  for  the  gratifica- 
tion of  that  vicious  appetite  ;  and  while  the  means 


64  WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY. 

remain  she  will  continue  to  do  so.  How  is  one  to 
help  such  a  case  then  ?  Did  you  not  hear  her  con- 
vulsive sigh  when  I  looked  round  for  and  mentioned 
the  Bible  ?  That  is  gone,  I  doubt  not.  But  do 
you  think  that  she  does  not  want  that  Bible  ?" 

"  Well,  it  could  be  easily  replaced.  I  did  not 
understand,"  replied  Frank. 

"  To  replace  it  would  be  very  useless,  and  she  is 
now  almost  too  weak  to  read.  There  are  other  means 
of  doing  good,  besides  through  the  purse." 

They  were  now  at  another  house.  A  poor  rail- 
way laborer  lay  extended  on  a  low  bed ;  his  wife 
was  gone  out  to  get  a  little  shoe-binding,  he  said, 
and  he  was  all  alone,,  with  the  exception  of  two 
children.  After  examining  the  limb,  and  speaking 
cheerfully  of  its  appearance — for  the  poor  man  had 
lately  broken  his  leg,  from  the  fall  of  some  earth 
upon  it — the  doctor  asked  him  how  they  got  on. 
There  was  no  sign  of  squalid  poverty  there.  The 
clock  still  ticked,  and  a  piece  or  two  of  good  solid 
furniture  adorned  the  little  chamber ;  the  children 
who  sat  by  the  hearth  looked  clean  and  tidily  clad  ; 
but  poverty,  grinding  poverty,  was  there  neverthe- 
less. The  accident  which  had  befallen  the  poor 
man  had  taken  away  all  means  of  support,  and  even 


WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY.         65 

that  day — he  owned  it  in  a  low  whisper  as  the  doctor 
bent  over  him — some  of  their  best  clothes  were  taken 
to  pledge,  and  more  must  go  soon.  Yet  such  cases 
as  these  are  not  called  cases  of  extreme  distress  ; 
and  because  they  looked  so  respectable,  and  because 
the  man  had  been  in  the  receipt  of  good  wages  and 
they  had  not  yet  begged,  they  had  hitherto  received 
no  relief. 

"This  is  only  my  second  visit,"  said  the  doctor, 
as  they  were  leaving.  "  He  is  not  a  patient  of  mine, 
but  a  young  medical  friend  who  attends  him  is 
taken  ill,  and  I  promised  to  call  yesterday  or  to  day. 
I  said  it  was  not  an  extreme  case  of  distress;  I 
should  have  said  of  poverty.  I  believe  that  the 
suffering  of  poverty  in  its  extreme  and  squalid  stage 
is  less  severe  and  intense  than  in  such  a  case  as  the 
one  we  have  just  seen.  I  will  not  say  that  the 
feelings  of  such  people  are  naturally  finer  than  the 
feelings  of  those  who  sink  deeper  in  poverty ;  but 
I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  the  edge  of  their 
feelings  is  blunted  as  they  are  pushed  down  the 
rough  road  of  adversity.  It  is  people  such  as  these, 
however,  that  I  think  it  behooves  us  to  help  in  their 
hour  of  need.     I  have  only  one  more  call  to  make." 

He  led  the  way  down  a  narrow  dirty  court,  where 
6* 


66  WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY 

children  were  playing  in  the  dirt  heaps  that  lay 
before  the  doors,  and  amongst  whom  there  was 
not  a  healthy  or  a  natural-looking  being  to  be  seen. 
They  all  looked  blanched  with  impure  air  and  scanty 
light,  dwindled  by  insufficient  and  unwholesome 
food,  and  running  wild  in  rude,  boisterous,  and 
quarrelsome  play. 

The  ascent  to  the  sick  chamber  was  a  difficult, 
almost  a  perilous  one.  It  was  in  the  roof  of  one  of 
those  high  and  dilapidated  houses  which  every  old 
city  possesses  in  abundance.  There  were  several 
beds  on  the  floor  of  the  chamber,  but  they  were  all 
unoccupied,  with  the  exception  of  one  to  which  the 
physician  with  some  difficulty  groped  his  way. 

It  was  a  dying-bed  this  time,  and  it  was  that  of 
a  poor  Italian  Image  boy,  to  whose  forlorn  case 
Dr.  L.'s  attention  had  only  been  that  morning  di- 
rected by  one  of  the  missionaries  of  the  city.  He 
could  speak  scarcely  any  English,  and  his  wants 
had  hitherto  been  made  known  by  signs  ;  but  hear- 
ing himself  addressed  in  his  own  tongue  by  the 
physician,  the  dying  boy  seemed  to  gather  life  and 
strength  ;  and  whilst  he  poured  forth  his  tale  of  woe 
in  the  stranger's  ears,  he  seemed  for  a  while  to 
forget  his  weakness  and  pain,  for  joy  and  gratitude. 


"WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY.         67 

"  Can  you  speak  Italian?"  the  doctor  asked  of 
his  companion,  as  they  left  the  room. 

"  I  ought  to  be  able,  sir ;  I  have  had  great  pains 
bestowed  on  me,  and  spent  two  years  at  Florence." 

"  Will  you  then  become  that  boy's  friend  and 
instructor  ?" 

"I!  I!" 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  employment ;  I  thought 
you  regretted  that  there  was  no  one  actually  depend- 
ent on  you  in  the  world.  Now  it  strikes  me  that 
you  have  both  time  and  ability  to  go  and  read  to 
that  dying  foreigner  out  of  the  book  of  life.  Did 
you  ever  seriously  consider  the  worth  of  a  person's 
soul ?" 

"  I  have  thought  but  little  of  my  own,  doctor, 
hitherto." 

"  Well,  who  knows,  but  that  if  you  go  and  read 
to  him,  and  accompany  the  good  man  in  his  visits 
as  interpreter,  you  may  be  led  to  think  of  your  own 
as  well  as  of  his.  There  is  only  one  way,  you  know. 
It  is  the  same  for  the  educated  man,  as  for  that 
poor  benighted  Italian  yonder.  Come,  our  time  is 
up — we  must  hasten  home." 

"  Before  I  leave  you,  doctor,  just  tell  me,  do  you 
think  it  is  really  required  of  you  with  your  large 


68  WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY. 

practice  and  many  engagements,  to  become  little 

better  tban  a  dispensary  doctor,  or  (forgive  me)  an 

itinerant  preacher?"      Dr.  L.  smiled. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  the  parable  of  the  talents, 

sir?" 

"Yes,  oh  yes." 

"  What  do  you  think  it  means  ?  Don't  you 
believe  that  it  contains  a  lesson  for  you,  for  me, 
and  for  every  intelligent  being  who  has  ever  seen 
or  read  it  ?  Do  you  think  that  Grod  gave  you  your 
property,  your  powers  of  mind,  your  natural  ad- 
vantages, your  knowledge  of  Italian  for  instance, 
to  lay  them  by  in  a  napkin  unused  and  unapplied  ? 
Of  him  to  whom  much  is  given,  much  will  be  re- 
quired. I  believe  it  is  required  of  me  to  use  every 
talent,  whether  of  mind  or  of  wealth,  or  of  bodily 
strength,  that  I  possess,  in  his  service  who  has 
bought  me  with  a  price — You  will  not  come  home 
to  dine  then?  but  let  me  see  you  to-morrow  ;  I  leave 
home  at  half-past  nine ;  if  you  will  come  before 
that  hour,  you  will  just  catch  me." 

Frank  "Weston  went  home,  musing  as  he  had  never 
mused  before.  He  was  deeply  affected  by  the  scenes 
of  misery  which  he  had  witnessed.  The  feeling, 
however,  was  stronger  tha'n  mere  sympathy.     A 


WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY.         69 

conviction  flashed  upon  him  that  he  stood  an  idler 
in  the  world ;  in  a  world,  too,  where,  from  what  he 
had  seen  that  clay,  there  was  no  lack  of  opportuni- 
ties for  doing  good,  if  but  the  inclination  were  pre- 
sent. He  carried  these  thoughts  with  him  to  his 
pillow.  In  the  morning  he  remembered  the  request 
which  the  doctor  had  made  to  him  that  he  would 
act  as  interpreter  to  the  Italian  image  boy ;  and 
partly  out  of  respect  for  the  doctor,  and  partly  from 
a  new  feeling  of  duty  which  was  dawning  on  his 
mind,  he  resolved,  although  at  some  sacrifice  of 
pride  and  inclination,  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  poor 
invalid,  in  company  with  the  missionary  whom  the 
doctor-  had  mentioned.  He  dressed  himself  in  his 
plainest  suit,  and  before  nine  o'clock  was  at  the 
physician's  house. 

"  I  am  come,  sir,"  he  said,  with  some  confusion, 
on  being  shown  into  the  doctor's  study,  "to  ask  you 
the  name  of  that  missionary — I  think  you  called 
him — who  goes  about  amongst  the  poor.  I  am  sure 
if  my  knowledge  of  the  poor  boy's  language  can  be 
of  any  use,  I  shall  have  great  pleasure  in  going ; 
but  you  know,  sir,  I  make  no  profession  of  being- 
religious,  none  whatever ;  and  I  think  I  shall  be 
rather  out  of  place  there ;  however,  simply  as  an 


70  WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY. 

interpreter  I  am  quite  willing  to  go.  I  am  really 
ashamed  to  think  how  little  I  have  done  in  any  way 
for  the  good  of  my  fellow  creatures  ;  but  this  may 
be  the  beginning  of  better  days." 

Dr.  L.,  with  a  smile,  put  into  the  young  man's 
hand  the  addre=s  of  the  missionary,  with  an  ex- 
planatory note.  "  I  heartily  wish  you  God  speed," 
he  added,  "  in  your  new  undertaking.  Let  me  see 
you  again  when  you  return." 

The  Italian  was  alone  when  they  entered,  and  he 
looked  at  first  rather  disappointed  when  he  found 
that  the  physician  was  not  of  the  party.  As  soon, 
however,  as  Frank  Weston  addressed  the  boy  in 
his  native  tongue,  the  languid  eyes  brightened  as  yes- 
terday, and  his  thoughts  seemed  to  come  too  thick 
for  his  rapid  utterance. 

It  was  a  scene  fit  for  a  painter's  eye.  That  dy- 
ing dark-eyed  foreigner  on  his  lowly  pallet  bed  ; 
the  humble  room  ;  the  board  of  images  on  the  floor, 
and  the  sunburnt  hat  and  well-worn  wallet  hang- 
ing on  a  rusty  nail  at  his  head.  On  one  side  of 
the  bed,  knelt  the  solemn-toned,  earnest,  and  be- 
nevolent missionary,  his  anxiety  to  teach  the  lad 
quickened  by  consciousness  of  inablity  to  convey 
intelligible  instruction,  and  his  belief  that  the  boy 


WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY.  71 

hung  on  the  verge  of  eternity.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  Italian  knelt  the  young  votary  of  the  world — the 
gay,  fashionable  Frank  Weston,  holding  the  poor 
boy's  wasted  hand,  and  a  copy  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment in  the  Italian  tongue,  prepared  to  translate 
the  simple  comments  into  words  that  the  lad  could 
understand. 

It  was  a  solemn  hour.  He  was  an  ignorant, 
lonely  stranger,  dying  on  a  foreign  shore,  and  at  the 
eleventh  hour  offered  the  great  salvation,  and  made 
willing  to  receive  the  message  of  reconciliation. 
The  missionary  very  little  thought  that  he  had 
preached  repentance  to  the  benighted  Italian  image 
boy  and  to  the  English  gentleman  and  scholar  at 
the  same  time,  and  when  the  simple  earnest  prayer 
was  put  up  for  mercy  by  that  dying  lad,  it  was  re- 
echoed by  him  who  knelt  there,  clad  in  fine  linen, 
as  well  as  by  the  beggar  wrapped  in  rags.  It  was 
even  so.  The  tear  of  penitence  trembled  in  his 
eye.  He  now  breathed  the  prayer  that  henceforth 
he  might  live  for  God. 

They  left  for  a  few  hours,  and  in  the  afternoon 
were  there  again.  There  was  a  great  change  in  the 
boy.  His  eyes  was  bright  still,  but  it  wore  the 
peculiar  and  glassy  look  of  approaching  death  ;  the 


72  WESTON  AND  THE  ITALIAN  IMAGE  BOY. 

voice  was  faint,  and  the  breathing  labored.  Hour 
after  hour  they  watched  the  young  life  ebb  away, 
reading  at  times,  and  at  times  repeating  in  his  ear 
assurances  of  the  Saviour's  willingness  and  ability 
to  save.  Again  and  again  he  made  signs  that  the 
account  of  the  dying  thief  should  be  rea$  to  him — 
a  narrative  well  suited  to  the  condition  and  com- 
prehension of  the  Italian.  For  the  fourth  time 
Frank  Weston  poured  it  into  his  ears.  There  was 
a  pause ;  they  thought  he  slept ;  when  suddenly 
the  dark  eye  opened  intelligently,  a  smile  illumined 
his  pale  lips,  as  raising  himself  on  his  elbow,  he 
faintly  uttered  the  words  of  the  dying  thief,  in  his 
own  beautiful  and  expressive  language  :  "  Signore, 
ricordati  di  me,"  ("Lord,  remember  me,")  and  im- 
mediately the  silver  cord  was  loosed,  and  the  Ita- 
lian image  boy  sank  lifeless  on  Frank  Weston's  arm. 
From  that  day  Frank  Weston's  life,  received  a 
new  direction.  Many  years  have  passed  away  since 
then,  and  no  one  would  now  recognise  the  languid 
votary  of  the  world,  in  the  active,  cheerful,  bouyant 
Christian  man.  The  love  of  Christ  fills  his  heart ; 
his  happy  service  fills  his  hand ;  and  the  prospect 
of  eternal  happiness  cheers  him  on,  and  gives  life 
a  zest  to  which  he  was  before  an  utter  stranger. 


MY  COUSIN  TOM. 

There  are  a  great  many  remarkable  babies  in 
the  world,  I  dare  say ;  perhaps  there  may  be  forty 
or  fifty,  all  told.  But  there  is  not  a  baby  in  the 
whole  habitable  globe  to  be  compared  with  my  little 
cousin  Tom — it  being  understood  always,  that  his 
mother's  estimate  of  him  is  to  be  taken  as  the  true 
one. 

His  mother,  my  aunt  Sarah  Fairfax,  who  is  my 
mother's  youngest  sister,  has  been  married  only 
three  or  four  years ;  and  Tom  is  her  only  child. 
There  is  not  the  least  doubt  that  he  is  a  paragon 
because  his  mother  pronounces  him  one  ;  and  cer- 
tainly nobody  knows  cousin  Tom  better  than  his 
own  mother. 

His    sayings    and    doings,    according    to    Aunt 

Sarah,  are  all  of  the  wonderful  sort.     He  asks 

very  profound  questions  in  theology  and  philosophy. 

For  example,  "  Why  is  it  naughty  to  tell  fibs  ?"  a 

7  (73) 


74  MY  COUSIN  TOM. 

question  which  the  astute  mother  observes,  goes  at 
once  to  the  origin  of  moral  obligation,  where  the 
great  Doctor  Paley  was  so  utterly  at  fault.  So 
much  for  theology. 

Then  again  in  philosophy,  "  How  came  the  pretty 
China  clog  to  fall  from  the  '  What  Not'  when  little 
Tom  only  touched  it."  "Wonderful!"  says  his 
mother.  "  That  is  the  very  question  that  suggested 
itself  to  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  when  he  saw  the  apple 
fall  to  the  ground ! — the  very  identical  question 
which  led  to  the  discovery  of  the  true  solar  system  !" 

Nor  is  Tom's  practical  wisdom  less  remarkable 
than  his  speculative  sagacity.  He  knows  the  diffe- 
rence for  example,  between  Henrion's  best  French 
sugar  plums,  brought  from  Philadelphia,  and  the 
country-made  goodies  that  come  from  the  grocers — 
he  prefers  white  bread  to  brown,  and  buttered 
toast  to  dry.  He  likes  riding  pickaback,  better 
than  walking ;  the  knowing  young  rogue,  is  far 
more  partial  to  mamma,  who  indulges  him  in  all 
his  freaks,  than  to  papa,  who  makes  him  do  as  he  is 
bidden. 

Such  a  memory  as  he  has  too  !  It  is  perfectly 
marvellous.  As  for  example,  when  I  came  home  at 
a  college  vacation,   he  had  hardly  given  me  the 


MY  COUSIN  TOM.       T.  75. 


MY  COUSIN  TOM.  75 

customary  greeting  kiss,  before  he  thrust  his  little 
hand  into  the  very  identical  pocket  where  I  used  to 
keep  the  bright  pennies  for  him  on  my  previous  va- 
cation. This  instance  of  acute  recollection  perfectly 
amazed  his  mother,  who  made  it  the  subject  of  quite 
a  long  dissertation  to  her  husband  at  dinner-time, 
and  seemed,  I  thought,  a  little  hurt  that  the  good 
man  did  not  perceive  any  thing  very  remarkable 
in  it. 

Then  he  has  such  curious  tricks  and  smart 
doings.  Once  his  mother  caught  him  helping  him- 
self to  the  cheese,  with  which  she  had  baited  a 
mouse-trap  ;  and  on  another  occasion  he  made  free 
with  a  lump  of  sugar,  stuck  between  the  wires  of 
the  canary's  cage  and  intended  for  the  bird's 
dessert,  and  not  for  Tom's.  Again  and  again,  he 
has  actually  gnawed  off  all  the  butter  from  his 
bread,  and  handed  it  to  mamma  to  be  buttered 
again — a  very  palpable  evidence  to  her  that  he  is 
a  smart  fellow. 

She  thinks  too  that  he  has  decided  histrionic 
talent,  which  is  shown  chiefly  in  adopting  the  cos- 
tume of  his  father's  boots  and  hat ;  and  figuring 
and  strutting  before  the  pier  glass,  with  mamma 
for  an  audience,  that  receives  each  performance, 


76  MY  COUSIN  TOM. 

with,  as  the  play  bills  say,  "unbounded  applause." 
These  and  many  more  doings  and  sayings  of  my 
cousin  Tom  go  to  prove  to  my  own  satisfaction  and 
his  mother's  that  he  is  decidedly  the  most  wonder- 
ful child  in  America.  There  appears,  however,  to 
have  been  one  other,  at  some  remote  period  of 
history,  in  Scotland,  who  was  scarcely  less  remark- 
able in  his  way,  as  we  learn  from  the  following 
lines  of  the  Scottish  poet,  quoted  in  a  former 
chapter. 

THE  WONDERFU'  WEAN. 

Our  wean's  the  most  wonderfu'  wean  e'er  I  saw, 
It  would  tak'  me  a  lang  summer  day  to  tell  a' 
His  pranks,  frae  the  mornin'  till  night  shuts  his  e'e, 
When  he  sleeps  like  a  peerie,  'tween  father  an'  me. 
For  in  his  quiet  turns,  siccan  questions  he'll  speir  : 
How  the  moon  can  stick  up  in  the  sky  that's  sae  clear? 
AVhat  gars  the  win'  blaw  ?  and  frae  whar  comes  the 

rain? 
He's  a  perfect  divert — he's  a  wonderfu'  wean. 

Or  wha  was  the  first  bodie's  father  ?  an'  wha 
Made  the  very  first  snaw-show'r  that  ever  did  fa'  ? 


MY  COUSIN  TOM.  77 

An'  wha  made  the  first  bird  that  sang  on  a  tree  ? 
An'  the  water  that  sooms  a'  the  ships  in  the  sea  ? — 
But  after  I've  tauld  him  as  weel  as  I  ken, 
Again  he  begins  wi'  his  wha  ?  an'  his  when  ? 
An'  he  looks  aye  sae  watchfu',  the  while  I  explain, — 
He's  as  auld  as  the  hills — he's  an  auld-farrant 
wean. 

An'  folks  wha  ha'e  skill  o'  the  lumps  on  the  head, 
Hint  there's  mae  ways  than  toilin'  o'  winnin'  ane's 

bread ; — 
How  he'll  be  a  rich  man,   an'  ha'e  men  to  work  for 

him, 
Wi'  a  kyte  like  a  bailie's,  shug  snugging  afore  him, 
Wi'  a  face  like  the  moon,  sober,  sonsy,  and  douce, 
An'  a  back,  for  its  breadth,  like  the  side  o'  a  house, 
'Tweel  I'm  unco  ta'en  up  wi't,  they  mak'  a'  sae 

plain  ; — 
He's  just  a  town's-talk — he's  a  bye-ord'nar  wean  ! 

I  ne'er  can  forget  sic  a  laugh  as  I  gat, 
To  see  him  put  on  father's  waistcoat  and  hat ; 
Then  the  lang-leggit  boots  gaed  sae  far  ower  his 
knees, 

The  tap  loops  wi'  his  fingers  he  grippet  wi'  ease, 

7* 


78  MY  COUSIN  TOM. 

Then  he  march't  thro'  the  house,  he  marcht  but, 

he  marcht  ben, 
Sae  like  mony  mae  o'  our  great-little  men, 
That  I  laugh  clean  outright,  for  couldna  contain, 
He  was  sic  a  conceit — sic  an  ancient-like  wean. 

But  mid  a'  his  daffin  sic  kindness  he  shows, 
That's  he's  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  dew  to  the  rose  ; 
An'  the  unclouded  hinnie-beam  aye  in  his  e'e, 
Mak's  him  every  day  dearer  an'  dearer  to  me. 
Though  fortune  be  saucy,  an'  dorty,  and  dour, 
An'  glooms  thro,  her  fingers,  like  hills  thro'  a  show'r, 
When  bodies  ha'e  got  ae  bit  bairn  o'  their  ain, 
He  can  cheer  up  their  hearts, — he's  the  wonderfu' 
wean. 


For  the  benefit  of  those  readers  who  are  not 
familiar  with  the  Scotch  dialect,  I  will  add  a  little 
glossary  to  this  poem. 

Wean  is  child ;  peerie,  a  boy  spinning  top  ; 
siccan,  such ;  gars,  makes ;  auld-farrant,  wise  beyond 
his  years ;  sonsy,  pleasant ;  but  and  ben,  kitchen 
and  parlor ;  daffin,  merriment ;  dorty  and  dour, 
pettish  and  stubborn. 


OUR  SERVANTS  AT  HOME. 

My  mother  has  a  remarkable  faculty  of  manag- 
ing servants.  She  always  makes  them  reverence 
and  love  her.  They  remain  with  her  a  great  while. 
Our  old  colored  cook,  Debby,  has  been  in  the  family 
near  twenty  years ;  and  the  relation  between  her 
and  the  children  is  one  of  mutual  affection  and  at- 
tachment. She  never  spoke  a  harsh  word  to  me 
in  all  her  whole  life ;  and  yet  when  I  was  a  little 
fellow  in  petticoats,  Debby  always  had  authority 
enough  over  me  to  keep  me  out  of  mischief  in  the 
kitchen  and  to  make  me  observe  all  the  rules  of  po- 
liteness when  I  was  in  her  dominions.  Her  disposi- 
tion being  very  mild  and  affectionate  and  her  man- 
ner quiet,  she  has  the  good  will  of  all  who  know 
her  ;  and  in  the  rather  extensive  circle  of  our  ac- 

(79) 


80  OUR  SERVANTS  AT  HOME. 

quaintance,  Debby  is  always  held  up  as  the  pattern 
and  paragon  of  good  servants. 

So  of  others  who  have  been  domesticated  for  a 
longer  or  a  shorter  time  with  us  ;  even  if  they  were 
indifferent  "helps"  before  they  came  to  our  house, 
they  soon  become  efficient  and  trustworthy. 

Now  all  this  is  the  effect  of  my  mother's  excel- 
lent method.  She  is  always  kind  and  considerate. 
She  consults  the  comfort  of  her  servants,  never  over- 
tasks them  and  always  observes  in  her  intercourse 
with  them  the  genuine  law  of  Christain  charity. 
Her  success  in  house-keeping  proves  the  truth  of 
that  old  saying  that  "good  masters  make  good 
servants." 

The  grand  secret  with  servants  is  to  treat  them 
justly  and  to  sympathise  with  them — to  enter  into 
their  feelings  and  plans ;  and  to  remember  that 
they  have  their  own  likings  and  dislikings,  their 
own  plans  and  schemes  with  reference  to  their  com- 
fort and  interest,  and  all  these  matters  are  entitled 
to  consideration.  The  employer  should  endeavor 
to  imagine  himself  in  the  place  of  the  servant ;  and 
should  often  say  to  himself,  "how  should  I  like  to 
be  treated  as  I  am  treating  this  servant."  Do  unto 
others  as  ye  would  that  they  should  do  unto  you. 


OUR  FOLKS  AT  HOME.  81 

The  following  story  by  Mrs.  Crosland,  shows  the 
mischiefs  that  result  from  an  opposite  course  to 
that  which  I  recommend.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
London,  where,  servants,  of  course,  are  more  at  the 
mercy  of  their  employers  than  in  this  country ;  but 
the  principles  which  should  govern  our  treatment 
of  them  hold  good  in  all  countries. 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

It  was  an  exceedingly  comfortable  dining-room, 
in  an  exceedingly  comfortable  house.  The  month 
was  January,  and  the  air  was  so  clear  and  frosty, 
that  every  step  which  passed  seemed  to  ring  upon 
the  pavement.  Thick  warm  curtains,  however,  ex- 
cluded all  draught,  and  the  brightest  of  fires  blazed 
in  the  polished  grate  ;  while  the  clear  light  of  a  pen- 
dent lamp  shone  upon  the  dessert  of  chestnuts,  in 
their  snowy  napkin,  and  golden  oranges.  Amber 
and  ruby-tinted  wines  sparkled  through  the  rich 
glass  which  held  them;  but  the  "comfortable" 
party  were  only  a  trio — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dixon,  and 
their  son.  They  were  people  whom  the  world  had 
used  very  kindly,  who  had  never  had  a  real  trouble 
in  their  lives.  No  doubt  they  had  imagined  a 
few  ;  and  imaginary  differ  from  real  ones,  I  be- 
lieve, chiefly  in  this — that  they  teach  nothing,  un- 
(82) 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.  $6 

less,  indeed,  their  indulgence  teach  and  strengthen 
selfishness. 

Mr.  Dixon  was  a  fine-looking  man  of  about  fifty, 
with  rather  a  pleasing  expression  of  countenance. 
He  was  often  visited  by  good,  kind  impulses,  but 
a  certain  indecision  of  character  had  made  him  fall 
under  the  rule  of  his  partner  early  in  their  mar- 
ried life ;  and  the  instances,  during  twenty-five 
years,  in  which  his  best  inclinations  had  been 
checked,  were  beyond  all  numbering.  The  lady, 
who  was  about  five  years  his  junior,  bore  every 
trace  of  having  been  a  pretty  woman,  though  on 
the  petite  scale.  Yet  there  were  people  who  did 
not  like  her  face  ;  and  certainly,  bright  as  her  eyes 
were,  they  put  you  in  mind  of  March  sunshine, 
with  an  east  wind  blowing  all  the  time.  Her  lips 
were  thin,  and  she  had  a  trick  of  smiling,  and  show- 
ing her  white  teeth  very  often,  even  when  she  said 
the  most  disagreeable  things.  Richard  Dixon,  the 
son,  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  his  mother ; 
though,  if  the  mouth  were  indicative  of  rather  more 
sentiment  than  she  possessed,  it  also  betrayed  more 
sensuality. 

"  This  is  a  very  serious  charge,  my  dear,"  said 
Mr.  Dixon,  putting  down  the  glass  he  had  raised 


84       THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

half-way  to  his  lips ;  "  are  you  sure  there  is  no 
mistake  ?" 

"  Quite  sure,"  replied  the  lady — "  quite -certain 
Mary  must  have  taken  it.  I  put  the  piece  of  lace 
at  the  top  of  the  drawer,  and  the  key  was  never  out 
of  my  possession,  except  when  I  entrusted  it  to  her." 

"  We  never  had  a  servant  I  should  so  little  have 
suspected,"  returned  Mr.  Dixon. 

"  Nor  I  either,"  said  the  son  ;  "  and  she  is,  out 
and  out,  the  best  housemaid  we  ever  had — at  least 
the  best  that  ever  has  been  willing  to  stay." 

Trut  halways  hits  hard,  and  the  color  rose  to 
Mrs.  Dixon's  cheek.  She  was  one  of  those  ladies 
who  cannot  "  keep  their  servants,"  "  Then  bad  is 
the  best  I  am  sure,"  she  exclaimed  angrily  ;  "  and 
for  my  part  I  am  very  glad  she  is  a  going." 

"  And  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  her  husband. 
"But  why  did  you  not  tell  me  a  month  ago  that 
you  had  given  her  warning,  instead  of  leaving  it 
n  this  way  to  the  last  moment  ?" 

"Really  I  cannot  see,  Mr.  Dixon,  what  you 
have  to  do  with  these  arrangements.  I  mention 
these  circumstance  now,  because  the  girl  is  leaving 
to-night,  and  you  will  see  a  strange  face,  to-mor- 
row, and  you  would  wish  to  know  all  about  it." 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.  85 

"  But  what  did  she  say  "when  you  accused  her  of 
theft?" 

"  Accused  her !  You  don't  suppose  I  should 
have  done  such  a  foolish  thing.  A  pretty  scene 
there  would  have  been.  I  know  the  fact,  and  that 
is  enough  :  you  don't  believe  I  should  have  got  back 
the  lace,  do  you?" 

"  But  justice,  my  dear,  justice  ;  surely  you  should 
tell  her  your  suspicions." 

"  Oh  !  now  that  I  have  engaged  another  ser- 
vant— now  that  she  is  going,  you  can  tell  her  if 
you  like.  But  I  don't  see  myself  what  use  it  is. 
She  is  sure  to  deny  it,  and  then  there  will  be  a 
scene — and  I  hate  scenes  as  much  as  you  do." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  slight  tap  at  the 
parlor  door,  and,  obedient  to  the  "  come  in"  of 
Mr.  Dixon,  the  discarded  Mary  entered.  She  was 
a  gentle-looking  girl,  of  about  twenty,  attired  in  a 
dark  cloak  and  straw  bonnet.  She  came  to  take  a 
dutiful  leave  of  the  family,  and  to  ask  a  question  ; 
■which  latter  natural  proceeding  seemed  not  to  have 
occurred  to  the  party  before.  In  engaging  her- 
self with  any  future  mistress,  and  referring  to  Mrs. 
Dixon  for  a  "  character,"  what  was  she  to  give  as 
the  reason  that  she  was  discharged  ? 


86      THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

So  innocent,  so  interesting  did  Mary  look — the 
tears  just  starting  to  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of 
leaving  a  home  for  many  months,  and  her  cheek 
slightly  flushed — that  neither  of  the  gentlemen 
could  believe  her  guilty.  But  Mrs.  Dixon  was  one 
of  those  ladies  who  discharge  about  a  dozen  servants 
a-year,  of  one  sort  or  another,  and  was  quite  har- 
dened against  "appearances." 

Mr.  Dixon  evaded  an  immediate  answer  to  Mary's 
question  by  asking  her  where  she  was  going !" 

"I  am  going  into  a  lodging,  sir." 

"  That  is  a  pity :  have  you  no  friends  to  stay 
with?" 

"  My  friends  are  all  in  Wiltshire,"  said  the  girl, 
with  a  sigh  ;  "  and  besides  that  it  would  cost  me  a 
great  deal  of  money  to  go  to  them,  I  would  rather 
look  out  for  a  place  than  to  make  a  holiday." 

"  Your  wages,  which  I  sent  down  to  you  were 
quite  right,  I  believe?"  said  Mrs.  Dixon,  with  an 
icy  dignity  that  was  intended  to  close  the  conference. 

"Quire  right,  thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Mary, 
with  a  courtesy ;  "  but  if  you  please,  when  I  go  after 
a  place  what  shall  I  say  was  the  reason  you  dis- 
charged me  ? 

"  I  think  your  own  conscience  must  tell  you,"  re- 


n 

THE  TEMPTEES  AND  THE  TEMPTED.     87 

plied  the  lady,  smoothing  her  braided  hair  with  her 
hand,  as  she  had  a  trick  of  doing  when  she  was  grow- 
ing angry.  Poor  Mary  turned  pale  at  these  words, 
indefinite  as  they  were,  and  could  hardly  murmur — 
"  Tell  me,  oh  !  tell  me,  what  is  it  I  have  done  ?" 

Her  change  of  color  was  to  Mrs.  Dixon  evidence 
of  guilt ;  and  with  a  sort  of  a  horrible  satisfaction 
at  this  proof  (to  her)  that  she  was  right,  the  lady 
charged  the  poor  girl  with  the  theft  which  she  had 
just  mentioned  to  her  husband.  It  was,  indeed,  a  scene 
which  followed — a  very  piteous  one,  Mary  uttered 
but  a  few  words  of  brief  and  emphatic  denial — far 
removed  from  the  loud  asseverations  which  the  guilty 
can  sometimes  deliver.  Tears  seemed  driven  back 
to  her  heart ;  and  as  she  stood  for  a  moment  with 
clasped  hands  and  rigid  features,  she  looked  like  a 
statue  of  woe.  Richard  Dixon  was  by  no  means 
unmoved.  He  had  his  own  reasons  for  believing 
her  a  girl  of  good  principles.  Like  many  other — 
more  thoughtless,  perhaps,  and  heartless — young 
men,  he  never  disguised  his  admiration  of  beauty 
to  the  object,  even  if  the  revealing  it  bordered  on 
insult.  And  he  remembered  that  Mary  had  always 
received  his  idle  compliments  with  a  dignity  that 
repelled  further  rudeness,  and  with  a  deportment 


88  THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

that  he  should  have  admired  in  a  sister.  He  placed 
a  chair  near  Mary,  and  begged  her  to  be  seated ; 
but,  absorbed  in  her  own  misery,  she  took  no  no- 
tice of  the  attention.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Dixon  had 
poured  out  a  glass  of  wine,  and  offered  it  to  her, 
exclaiming — "  I  must  hope  there  is  some  mistake. 
I  cannot  believe  this  of  you." 

The  word  and  act  of  kindness  seemed  to  melt 
the  statue,  and  she  burst  into  tears.  But  Mrs. 
Dixon  felt  this  would  never  do.  It  was  time  now 
for  her  to  play  a  more  interesting  scene  in  the 
drama,  and  applying  her  filmy,  lace-bordered  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes,  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair, 
and  sobbed  out  reproaches  to  her  husband  for  his 
cruelty  in  doubting  her  word.  Poor  man  !  what 
could  he  do  ?  Chiefly,  I  believe,  he  resolved  never — 
never  again — to  interfere  between  two  of  woman- 
kind ;  and  hurrying  poor  Mary  to  the  hall-door, 
where  a  cab  and  her  boxes  awaited  her,  he  put  a 
sovereign  into  her  hand,  as  a  remembrance  of  her 
kind  attention  to  the  buttons  of  his  shirts,  and  such 
et  cetera.  The  gold  dropped  from  her  grasp,  as 
she  exclaimed — "  No,  sir,  no  sir — my  character !  my 
character !" 

Mr  Dixon  stooped  for  the  money,  and  pressed  it 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.  89 

upon  her  again — till,  trusting  to  his  assurances  that 
he  did  not  believe  her  guilty,  and  that  he  would  see 
her  righted,  she  consented  to  accept  it 

It  is  a  subject  of  painful  interest  to  ask  how  the 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  female  servants  "  out  of 
place  "  contrive  to  exist  for  weeks,  and  even  months 
together,  as  they  do  upon  the  scanty  savings  from 
their  scanty  wages  ?  And  plain  as  the  duty  is  of 
employers  not  to  deceive  one  another  by  giving  an 
unjust  character  of  a  servant,  or  hiding  glaring 
faults,  there  is  a  terrible  responsibility  in  depriving 
a  young  woman  of  a  situation  which  is  not,  I  fear, 
generally  sufficiently  felt. 

It  seems  too  often  forgotten  that  servants  have 
peculiarities  of  temper  and  disposition  as  well  as 
their  mistresses,  and  that  she  who  would  not  suit 
one  family  might  be  admirably  adapted  to  please 
another.  Surely,  it  is  the  most  truthful,  as  well  as 
the  most  humane  plan,  in  a  character ;  judging 
charitably — if  there  be  knowledge  darker  than 
doubt — of  the  general  acquirements.  Sensible 
people  may  commonly  get  on  well  with  servants 
who  speak  the  truth,  and  have  a  tolerable  sha,re  of 
brains  :  so  much  that  is  valuable  must  follow  in  the 
wake.  If  one  cannot  have  both — truth  is  even  more 


90  THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

precious  than  sense.     What  was  poor  Mary  to  do, 
robbed  of  her  character  for  honesty  ? 

A  day  or  two  after  her  dismissal  she  called  upon 
Mrs.  Dixon,  re-asserting  her  innocence,  and  implor- 
ing her  mistress  to  give  her  such  a  character  as 
would  procure  her  a  situation.  But  the  mistress 
was  firm  in  her  resolve  to  tell  the  circumstance  to 
any  lady  who  might  call,  just  as  it  had  occurred.  It 
would  be  tedious  to  narrate  the  trials  of  the  friend- 
less girl.  How  one  stranger  would  have  taken  her 
into  her  house,  but  for  this  unfortunate  episode  re- 
vealed by  Mrs.  Dixon ;  and  how,  on  Mary  defend- 
ing herself  with  tears  and  entreaties,  the  half-con- 
vinced lady  declared  she  would  have  taken  her,  had 
Mary  told  the  story  at  first. 

Prompted  by  this  assertion,  in  her  next  applica- 
tion she  confessed  the  suspicion  which  attached  to 
her ;  but  there  is  a  very  strong  esprit  de  corps 
among  mistresses,  and  they  very  seldom  think  each 
other  wrong.  The  lady  could  not  fancy  that  Mrs. 
Dixon  had  been  mistaken.  It  was  after  these  sorrows 
that  the  thought  occurred  to  her  of  applying  to  the 
mistress  with  whom  she  had  lived  previously  to  her 
service  with  Mrs.  Dixon,  and  who  had  discharged  her 
only  in  consequence  of  reducing  her  establishment. 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.  91 

Alas  !  she  had  left  the  neighborhood,  to  reside  near 
a  married  daughter ;  but,  as  they  had  paid  every 
bill  with  scrupulous  exactness,  not  one  of  the  trades- 
people could  tell  her  whither  they  had  gone.  The 
nearest  intelligence  she  could  gain  was — "  Some- 
where in  Kent."  Poor  Mary! — her  last  anchor 
of  hope  seemed  taken  from  her.  *         *         * 

Winter  had  given  place  to  Spring ;  but  though 
the  frost  no  longer  bleached  the  pavement  or  crisped 
all  moisture,  and  though  the  sun  seemed  struggling 
to  warm  the  atmosphere,  there  was  a  cold  wind 
which  would  have  rendered  warm  garments  very 
acceptable,  and  which  blew  through  the  thin  shawl 
of  a  young  girl,  as  she  stood  at  the  corner  of  a 
street,  talking  to  a  friend,  a  few  years  older  than 
herself.  The  latter  appeared  more  a  favorite  of 
fortune  than  poor  Mary,  for  she  was  the  shivering 
girl.  Now  millionaires  can  afford  to  dress  in  rusty 
black,  and  a  great  many  of  the  sterner  sex  are 
either  careless  to  slovenliness  about  their  equip- 
ments, or  disfigure  themselves  by  a  horrible  taste ; 
but  it  may  be  taken  as  a  general  rule,  subject  to 
but  few  exceptions  that  women — especially  young, 
pretty  ones — dress  as  well  as  their  means  will  per- 
mit.    Hence  the  warmer,  richer  clothing  of  Mary's 


92  THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

companion,  proclaimed  her  better  off  in  the  world. 
"  It  must  come  to  that,  or  worse,"  said  Mary, 
with  a  shudder ;  and  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes, 
which  shone  with  that  strange  glassy  lustre  that 
often  accompanies,  perhaps  reveals,  intense  mental 
suffering.  "After  all,  as  you  say,"  she  continued 
"  it  would  not  be  a  false  character,  for  I  never 
wronged  any  one  of  a  farthing's  worth  in  my  life. 
If  it  could  be  managed — if  I  could  but  get  a  place  !" 

"  Oh  !  it  can  be  managed — never  fear.  Do  you 
suppose  that  I  could  not  act  the  fine  lady,  when  I 
have  acted  at  a  real  theatre  for  three  seasons, 
and  done  much  harder  things,  I  can  tell  you  ?  I 
don't  say  but  what  I  shall  expect  you  to  do  me  a 
good  turn  some  of  these  days,  if  I  should  want  it." 

"What  can  I  ever  do  for  you?"  exclaimed 
Mary — "you  who  are  so  much  above  me  !" 

Poor  Mary  !  how  sadly  had  her  heart  been  warped 
by  temptation !  how  sadly  must  her  self-respect 
have  been  lowered  before  she  could  have  formed 
such  an  estimate  of  herself — fallen,  or  falling  as 
she  already  was !  Perhaps  it  were  best  not  to  in- 
quire what  were  the  probable  services  this  unprin- 
cipled woman  expected  in  return  for  giving  the 
false  character.     It  is  hardly  to  be  supposed  that 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.  93 

she  had  sought  the  acquaintance  of  the  friendless 
girl  without  some  selfish  plan  or  motive.  They 
stood  talking  a  few  minutes  longer,  and  then  they 
walked  away  in  different  directions — the  elder  with 
the  confident  air  of  many  schemes  of  deception;  the 
other  trembling  and  abashed  at  the  first  breaking- 
down  of  the  barriers  of  integrity.  Oh !  ye  thought- 
less women  in  your  homes  of  ease — ye  whose  breath 
can  give  or  take  away  reputation — be  merciful  in 
your  judgment  of  her,  and  pause  well,  ere,  on  some 
similar  occasion,  you  drive  a  helpless  female  to  des- 
peration ! 

"  Oh !  it  was  pitiful, 

Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Friend  she  had  none." 

Mary  had  no  longer  the  means  of  returning  to  her 
family  in  Wiltshire ;  she  was  already  reduced  to 
poverty's  sad  extremity,  and  had  that  very  morn- 
ing conveyed  her  warm  cloak  to  the  safe  keeping 
of  the  pawnbroker.  Besides,  how  could  she  have 
borne  to  go  as  a  disgraced  pauper  among  the  large 
poor  family  to  which  she  belonged — among  those 
who  had  looked  with  such  pride  upon  their  "  sister 
at  service  in  London  ?" 

And  yet,  notwithstanding  her  many  gifts,  and 


94  THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

the  gaunt  figure  of  absolute  want  which  loomed  upon 
her,  and  was  drawing  nearer  and  nearer,  she  had 
refused  assistance  only  the  day  before  from  her 
"  young  master,"  whom  she  had  chanced  to  meet  in 
the  street,  and  who  had  accosted  her,  apparently 
with  much  sympathy.  From  him  she  had  learned 
that  Mrs.  Dixon  was  as  implacable  as  ever ;  yet 
though  he  pressed  silver  and  even  gold  upon  her, 
let  us  be  thankful  she  was  still  hedged  round  by 
the  feelings  of  delicacy,  and  feminine  propriety  for- 
bade her  accepting  money  from  "an  admirer." 
Surely  the  world-hardened  tempters  do  not  always 
the  dreadful  work  they  are  about. 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,  do  you  know  of  a  place  ?" 
was  the  inquiry  of  Mary,  about  an  hour  after  she 
had  parted  from  her  new  acquaintance.  She  had  en- 
tered a  respectable-looking  baker's  shop,  in  one  of 
the  great  thoroughfares. 

"What  sort  of  a  place  ?"  said  the  mistress,  a 
good-tempered,  good-looking  young  woman  of  seven 
or  eight  and  twenty,  who  was  just  then  sweeping 
the  counter  with  a  hand-brush,  with  great  activity. 
Mary,  by  the  way,  had  observed  at  a  glance  that 
shop,  and  counter,  and  hand-brush,  and  all  appurte- 
nances,  were   what  every  thing   belonging   to  a 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.      95 

baker's  shop  should  be,  exquisitely  clean  and  neat ; 
and  that  the  mistress  herself,  in  her  snowy  cap 
and  light-colored  cotton  dress,  was  a  pattern  of 
neatness. 

"I  could  take  a  housemaid's  place,  ma'am,"  re- 
plied Mary,  "  or  servant  of  all-work  in  a  small 
family." 

"  Lor  !  I  wonder  if  you  will  suit  us  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Allen,  the  baker's  wife ;  we  sent  off  our  servant  in 
a  great  huff  last  night,  and  I  have  no  one  to  do  a 
stroke  for  me,  except  the  nurse-girl,  and  she  has 
enough  to  do  with  three  children  to  mind.  Could 
you  come  directly — to  day,  I  mean?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  to-day,  if  you  like." 

Then  followed  the  ordinary  questions,  and,  of 
course"  among  them — "  Where  did  you  live  last  ?" 

"  With  Mrs.  Bell,  ma'am,  No,  20, street." 

Alas,  alas,  poor  Mary  ! 

"  And  can  you  have  a  good  character  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  can,  ma'am.  I  only  left  because 
Captain  Bell  was  obliged  to  go  with  his  ship,  and 
Mrs.  Bell  did  not  want  two  servants  any  longer." 

"Well,  wait  here  in  the  shop  a  minute,  while  I 
go  and  speak  to  my  husband.  James,  James,"  she 
continued,  calling  from  the  stairs  which  led  to  the 


96      THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

bake  house,  "  I  want  you."  And  up  there  came  a 
portly-looking  man,  with  shirt-sleeves  tucked  up, 
and  his  arms  covered  above  the  elbows  with  flour 
and  dough.  The  Aliens  were  a  happy  couple,  well 
to  do  in  the  world,  and  in  good  humor  with  it  and 
themselves.  An  attentive  listener  might  have 
heard  some  thing  about,  "  tidy-looking  girl ;  think 
she'd  just  do :  but  here  it's  Friday :  I  am  sure  I 
never  can  get  out  for  her  character,  either  to-day 
or  to-morrow." 

"  That's  a  pity,"  said  the  husband. 

"If  we  could  but  be  sure  of  her  honesty,  I 
would'nt  be  so  stupid  as  to  say  she  could  have  a 
good  character  if  she  were  not  honest,"  replied  the 
wife,  whose  mind  seemed  veering  very  much  to- 
wards trying  her. 

"  That's  true,"  exclaimed  the  baker,  as  if  a  new 
light  were  let  in  on  the  subject. 

"  Come  and  see  her,"  said  the  wife. 

There  were  two  or  three  customers  waiting  in 
the  shop,  but  during  Mrs.  Allen's  short  absence, 
her  second  child,  a  little  girl  of  about  three  years  old. 
had  "made  friends"  with  Mary,  and  was  clinging 
to  her  hand,  and  looking  up  in  her  face,  as  if  she 
were  an    old  accquintance.     It  may  be  that  this 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.  97 

was   the  feather  which   pleased  the   parents    and 
turned  the  scale. 

The  feelings  with  which  Mary  learned  that  she 
was  to  be  received  in  this  usual  manner,  and  that 
the  falsehood  that  was  planned  would  not  be  acted 
for  three  days  to  come,  at  least,  were  something  like 
those  we  may  imagine  a  culprit  to  entertain,  when 
he  receives  a  respite  of  his  sentence.  A  dim  hope 
would  make  itself  felt,  a  dim  hope  that  something 
would  occur  to  prevent  it  being  carried  into 
execution. 

With  what  wonderful  activity  Mary  set  to  work, 
or  how  anxiously  she  strove  to  please,  words  cannot 
easily  tell.  But  the  lie  was  a  haunting  presence 
that  seemed  to  banish  even  the  hope  of  happiness. 
The  honest  baker  and  his  wife  were  evidently  well 
satisfied  with  their  new  servant.  The  advantage  by 
which  she  had  profited  of  living  in  a  family  belong- 
ing to  a  higher  station,  enabled  her  to  do  many  things 
in  a  superior  way,  and  the  Aliens  were  people  to 
appreciate  all  this.  And  the  neat  and  nice  manner 
in  which  she  served  the  Sunday's  dinner,  of  which 
a  couple  of  friends  partook,  was  duly  commented 
on.  Then  the  children  "took  to  her"  amazingly, 
and  the  circumstance  of  her  discovering  a  half- 
9 


98      THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

sovereign  which  had  strangely  escaped  from  the  till, 
seemed  to  give  them  the  most  perfect  confidence  in 
her  honesty ;  so  that,  when,  on  the  afternoon  of 
Tuesday,  the  appointment  being  duly  made  with 
the  fictitious  Mrs.  Bell,  Mrs.  Allen  was  equipped  in 
a  handsome  silk  dress,  ready  to  go  "  after  Mary's 
character,"  she  almost  felt  that  it  was  a  mere  form, 
so  certain  was  she  of  the  girl's  integrity. 

This  was  a  dreadful  moment  to  Mary.  She  felt 
as  if  her  quickly-beating  heart  sent  the  blood  to  the 
crown  of  her  head,  and  that  the  next  instant  it  re- 
ceded, and  left  her  ready  to  faint,  while  all  the 
events  of  her  troubled  career  rushed  in  strange  dis- 
tinctness  before  her,  even  to  the  history  she  had 
learned  of  the  baker's  former  servant  having  been 
discharged  for  telling  a  falsehood.  But  then  he 
had  said — "  We  would  have  forgiven  hei,  if  she  had 
not  persisted  in  it !" 

By  an  uncontrollable  impulse,  as  Mrs.  Allen  was 
leaving  her  parlor,  Mary  seized  the  skirt  of  her 
dress,  and  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  before  her, 
exclaimed  amid  a  passionate  torrent  of  tears — "It 
is  your  goodness  that  has  saved  me  !  oh,  hear  me, 
hear  me!"  And  then,  in  broken  phrases,  she  poured 
out  the  story  of  her  trials  and  temptations. 


MARY  AND  MRS.  ALLEN,      P.  98, 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.  99 

Sad  was  it  to  see  the  altered  looks  of  her  bene- 
factors, and  to  hear  the  cold  and  mournful  tone  in 
which  Mrs.  Allen  said — "  So  you  have  deceived  me 
after  all :  you  would  have  cheated  me  with  a  false 
character :"  and  the  kind-hearted  woman  sank  in 
her  chair,  overcome  with  the  surprise. 

"We  cannot  keep  you,"  returned  the  baker 
sternly. 

"Mercy — mercy  !"  exclaimed  the  poor  girl,  and 
weak  from  recent  scanty  fare,  for  she  had  been  too 
wretched  to  eat  during  even  the  few  days  that 
abundance  had  been  before  her,  she  fainted  outright. 
When  she  came  to  herself  she  was  stretched  on  a 
sofa,  with  master  and  mistress  both  leaning  over  her. 
There  was  pity  on  their  faces,  and  tears  rolled  down 
Mrs.  Allen's  cheeks.  In  loosening  her  dress,  in  their 
endeavors  to  restore  her,  they  had  come  upon  a 
packet  of  pawnbroker's  duplicates,  the  dates  of 
which,  and  the  nature  of  the  articles  pledged,  were 
a  touching  confirmation  of  her  story.  From  the 
"  cornelian  brooch,"  so  easily  dispensed  with,  to 
the  necessary  cloak,  and  a  prayer-book,  the  mourn- 
ful chain  was  complete. 

"We  will  not  turn  you  away"  said,  the  baker, 
"just  yet :  we  will  try  you  a  little  longer." 


100     THE  TEMPTEKS  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

"Your  goodness  has  saved  me!"  was  all  the 
stricken  girl  could  utter. 

"But,"  continued  he,  "nry  wife  will  go  imme- 
diately to  your  real  mistress,  and  hear  her  version 
of  the  story.  Certainly  your  confession  is  volun- 
tary, and  I  do  not  believe  you  are  hardened  in 
deception." 

Mrs.  Allen  set  off,  and  the  distance  beino;  con- 
siderable,  she  was  gone  upwards  of  two  hours. 
What  an  eternity  they  seemed  to  the  poor  servant ! 

"Well,  my  dear,"  exclaimed  the  baker,  when  at 
last  she  returned,  "what  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Why,  I  think,  James,  that  a  great  many  people 
who  call  themselves  ladies  are  no  ladies  at  all. 
Would  you  believe  it,  this  Mrs.  Dixon  has  found 
the  piece  of  lace  she  accused  the  girl  of  stealing — 
found  it  slipped  behind  the  drawer,  or  something 
of  that  sort :  and  except  for  her  own  regret  at 
sending  away  a  good  servant,  I  don't  think  she 
feels  her  wickedness  at  all.  Poor  girl,  I  cannot  help 
pitying  her.  It  was  very  wrong  to  attempt  to  cheat 
us  with  a  false  character,  but  it's  my  belief  we  none 
of  us  know  what  we  should  do,  if  we  were  sorely 
tempted.  And  besides,  you  see  she  was  not  equal 
to  carrying  out  the  deception." 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.  101 

"Let  us  keep  her,"  was  the  baker's  emphatic 
rejoinder. 

"I  don't  know  that  we  can,"  said  Mrs.  Allen, 
shaking  her  head  dubiously. 

"  Mrs.  Dixon  says  she'll  take  her  back,  if  she  likes 
to  go,  for  the  lady  has  had  three  house-maids  since 
she  left,  and  you  know  it  is  a  much  grander  place 
than  ours.  At  any  rate,  she  promises  to  give  her 
an  excellent  character." 

"Did  you  tell  this  Mrs  Dixon  about  the 
intended  false  character?" 

"  No,  I  didn't ;  for  I  soon  found  out  how  matters 
were,  and  I  felt  I  should  have  been  wicked  to  do  the 
girl  a  further  mischief." 

"  Quite  right,  my  love,"  said  the  baker,  very 
affectionately. 

Mary  was  called  in,  and  the  facts  related.  With 
tearful  joy,  and  amid  thanksgiving  to  Heaven,  she 
implored  that  her  benefactors  would  allow  her  to 
stay  with  them,  rejecting  with  something  like  scorn, 
the  idea  of  a  "  grander"  place.  Faithfully  has  she 
now  served  them  for  years  ;  and,  promoted  to  the 
dignity  of  shopwoman,  she  is  looked  upon  rather 
as  a  tried  friend  than  any  thing  else.  But  even  in 
the  sunshine  of  happiness  she  never  forgets  that  it 
9* 


102  THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

is  the  "  goodness,"  as  she  calls  it,  of  the  baker  and 
his  "wife  which  has  saved  her. 

"Alas,  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity  !" 

How  often  would  a  generous  trust  save  the  sorely 
Tempted ! 


MY  MOTHER'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

"It  is  all  for  the  best,"  said  my  mother  to  Jane. 

"  So  you  always  say,  mother ;"  replied  my  sister, 
"  but  I  some  how  can't  see  how  this  shower  coming 
up,  and  depriving  me  of  a  delightful  walk,  can  be 
all  for  the    best." 

"  That  is  because  you  have  not  learned  to  acqui- 
esce in  that  which  Providence  ordains.  It  is  enough 
to  know  that  whatever  happens  to  us,  through  means 
entirely  beyond  our  control,  is  ordered  by  infinite 
wisdom  and  goodness,  and  is  therefore  ordered 
aright  and  is  precisely  the  way  which  is  most  for 
our  good." 

"But  does  this  apply  to  such  little  matters  as  a 
shower  coming  on  just  at  the  time  I  was  going  on 
an  excursion  of  pleasure." 

"  Certainly.  Nothing  is  trifling  in  the  view  of 
Providence  ;     Are  we  not  told  by  an  unerring  au- 

(103)    ' 


104  my  mother's  philosophy. 

thority  that  the  very  hairs  of  our  heads  are  num- 
bered?" 

"  Well,  well,  if  I  can  only  get  in  the  way  of  al- 
ways recollecting  this,  it  seems  to  me  it  will  save 
a  world  of  fretting  and  complaining." 

"Just  so.  And  is  that  not  very  desirable — 'a' 
consummation  devoutly  to  be  wished?' ' 

"  I  think  it  is.  I  suppose  that  belief  in  a  par- 
ticular superintendence  of  Providence  is  what  makes 
you,  dear  mother,  always  so  calm  and  serene." 

"  Whatever  serenity  I  possess  comes  from  my  en- 
deavors to  be  submissive  to  Divine  Providence ; 
but,  indeed,  I  am  not  successful.  Still,  I  have, 
reason  to  know  that  a  little,  even  a  little  quiet  sub- 
mission to  what  is  ordered  by  our  Heavenly  Father 
is  worth  more  than  all  the  teachings  of  philosophers." 

"  And  for  all  that,  I  have  heard  my  dear  father 
commending  your  philosophy." 

Dear  Jane,  I  have  learnt  my  philosophy  from  the 
New  Testament ;  and  I  thank  Heaven  that  this  school 
of  philosophy  is  accessible  to  the  humblest  laborer  as 
well  as  the  proudest  among  the  wise  and  learned  and 
powerful  of  the  earth." 

"  Now  I  think  of  it,  mother,  what  you  say  of 
folks  in  humble  life  reminds  me  of  a  story  of  Mrs. 


my  mother's  philosophy.  105 

Crosland's,  which  I  read  the  other  day,  in  which  the 

heroine,  a  poor  little  seamstress,  is  represented  as 

having  adopted  your  philosophy." 

"Pray  go  and  get  the  story  and  read  it." 
Jane  did  as  she  was  desired  and  read  the  story 

of  the  Christmas  Day,  as  follows. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

"  Mother,  there's  only  Mrs.  MacDingaway's 
plaid  cotton-velvet  dress  to  finish,  and  the  young 
lady's,  her  companion  tarlatan  muslin  to  make, 
and  Miss  Brightington's  blue  body  to  sew  on,"  said 
Susan  Bennett,  a  pretty  little  dressmaker,  "who  had 
just  set  up  in  the  aristocratic  suburb  of  Islington. 
"  I  shall  get  them  finished  by  Christmas-eve,"  she 
added,  "  and  shall  have  time  to  make  you  the  new 
cap,  and  put  the  flounce  on  my  own  brown  merino." 

Alas  !  for  the  vanity  of  human  expectations. 
Napoleon  foresaw  not  the  frosts  and  snows  of  Rus- 
sia; and  Susan  Bennett  did  not  know  the  colder 
elements  of  envy  and  selfishness  that  were  to  chill 
her  heart  on  Christmas-day.  The  eve  came,  and, 
basket  in  hand,  the  little  dressmaker  tripped  along. 
The  ponderous  velvet,  of  vast  dimensions,  and  the 
freezing  muslin,  were  safely  delivered ;  and  now 

.  (106) 


THE  CHKISTMAS  DAT,  107 

came  the  delicate  silk,  for  the  only  daughter  and 
sole  heiress  of  a  retired  stockbroker,  but  one  who 
would  not  give  her  a  guinea  for  dower  while  he 
lived.  Here  Susan  was  desired  to  walk  in  ;  and 
then  she  was  told  to  walk  up  into  the  snug  and 
comfortable  dressing-room  of  that  elderly  young 
lady,  for  Miss  Brightington  was  thirty  or  there- 
abouts. Not  that  I  would  hint  that  there  is  any 
impeachment  of  the  moral  character  in  being  thirty, 
or  that  it  is  even  a  legal  crime,  which  might  be 
quite  another  thing,  or  even  that  parties  acknow- 
ledging such  a  fact  are  amenable  to  any  obsolete 
law ;  but,  unhappily,  Miss  Brightington  made 
herself  ridiculous,  by  behaving  a  la  seventeen,  and 
was  afflicted  with  a  shortness  of  memory  quite  de- 
plorable. She  could  not  remember  the  Queen's  ac- 
cession— not  a  bit — and  had  only  a  vague  idea  of 
being  taking  to  see  the  illuminations  on  the  au- 
spicious event  of  her  Majesty's  marriage  ;  adding, 
of  course,  that  "  children  always  like  such  things." 
Miss  Brightington  also  ascended  into  the  warm 
dressing-room,  and,  combining  the  expression  of  an 
injured  individual  with  as  much  dignity  as  wTas 
compatible  with  the  dainty  feet-upon-fender-and-fire- 
screen-in-hand  attitude  she  adopted,  she  spoke  to 


108  THE  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

the  trembling  Susan,  who  saw  that  something  was 
wrong,  but  could  not  tell  what,  seeing  that  the  new 
dress  was  yet  to  be  tried,  and  she  did  believe  it 
would  fit  "beautifully." 

"  I  could  not  have  believed  such  a  thing,"  said 
the  lady,  taking  the  dress  in  her  hand  with  some- 
thing very  like  a  snatch.  (N.  B.  To  snatch  is  not 
dignified.) 

"  What  have  I  done  wrong,  ma'am,"  said  Susan, 
meekly ;  "  I  have  made  it  exactly  as  you  ordered." 

"  As  I  ordered,  indeed  !  But  haven't  you  made 
Miss  Clarington's  green  satin  with  a  Polka 
Jacket?" 

Susan  admitted  the  fact. 

"  And  she  is  to  dine  here  to-morrow  !  Do  you 
suppose  I'll  wear  this  thing?"  and  the  irate  lady 
threw  the  dress  from  her. 

"I  think  it  looks  so  nice,  ma'am,"  said  Susan, 
holding  it  out  in  the  most  attractive  manner ;  "  and 
it's  just  the  make  you  thought  so  becoming." 

"  Thought — three  months  ago  !  I  tell  you  what 
it  is,  you  must  take  it  back,  and  make  me  a  Polka 
Jacket  by  five  o'clock  to-morrow." 

"It's  Christmas  day  !"  exclaimed  the  now  tear- 
ful dressmaker. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DAY.  109 

"  Well  I  know  it  is.  I  want  it  for  the  Christ- 
mas party.  No  harm  in  working,  I  am  sure,  if 
there  is  no  harm  in  playing  forfeits,  and  all  that." 

"  I  must  make  quite  a  new  body :  I  must  sit  up 
all  night  to  do  it." 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  you  people  always  say  that ; 
if  you  won't  do  it  somebody  else  will,"  returned  the 
lady;  and  assuming  the  air  of  a  patroness,  she 
continued — "  I  did  think,  after  all  I  had  done  for 
you,  I  should  have  met  with  a  little  gratitude  !  but 
there's  no  such  a  thing  in  the  world,  I  believe." 
And  doubtless  she  spoke  from  personal  experience. 

Poor  simple-hearted  Susan  was  quite  overpowered 
by  the  charge  of  ingratitude  ;  and  not  clearly  un- 
derstanding that  all  she  had  to  be  grateful  to  Miss 
Brightington  for,  was,  being  allowed  to  work  for 
her  cheaper  and  better  than  that  distinguished  in- 
dividual could  find  any  one  else  to  do,  she  would, 
at  the  moment,  have  consented  to  make  Polka 
Jackets  for  a  hundred  days  and  nights  to  escape 
from  it. 

Now  poor  little  Susan  had  a  thorough  woman's 
heart.  Not  one,  however,  at  all  like  that  of  a  fash- 
ionable belle,  with  all  its  glow  and  glory  worn  off  by 
countless  flirtations.  Nor  did  she  a  bit  resemble  the 
10 


110  THE  CHRISTMAS  DAT. 

class  of  "  strong  minded"  women  who  despise  dress 
and  all  such  appurtenances,  who  wouldn't  be  hand- 
some if  they  could — not  they — and  who  yet  feel  a 
natural  antipathy  to  those  afflicted  with  the  gift  of 
beauty,  albeit  so  despised  by  them.  For  ourselves, 
we  would  not  give  a  pin  for  a  woman  who  had  not 
just  enough  of  a  natural  kind  of  fascinating  de- 
sire to  please,  which  teaches  her  how  to  put  on  a 
shawl  or  a  bonnet  in  the  most  effective  manner. 
Now  Susan  Bennett  had  precisely  the  right  quantity 
of  this  feminine  talent ;  and  it  was  not  only  the 
flounce  to  her  own  dress  that  she  wanted  to  prepare 
against  that  coming  day — there  were  half-a-dozen 
et  ceteras  of  the  toilet  that  seemed  urgent  necessities 
ere  she  could  appear  at  a  certain  Christmas  party, 
which  she  had  looked  forward  to,  with  the  eager- 
ness of  those  who  taste  few  pleasures,  for  many  a 
week. 

Who  could  it  be  before  whom  she  wished  to  appear 
charming  ?  Not,  surely,  her  grandmother,  who  by 
the  way,  was  yet  young  enough  to  make  a  plum- 
puddmg,  and  to  enjoy  the  same ;  not  her  uncles 
and  aunts,  and  the  juvenile  sprouts,  whose  numbers 
seem  legion.  Though,  if  she  had  been  asked  to 
make  out  a  list  of  the  Christmas  guests  expected  to 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DAY.  Ill 

meet  at  uncle  Tom's,  the  chances  are  would  she 
have  left  out  a  certain  merry-hearted  young  watch- 
maker, who  always  said  "  every  thing  was  for  the 
best" — or  at  any  rate,  she  would  have  named  him 
last,  with  a  sort  of  "  Oh,  I  forgot  cousin  Robert." 

The  little  dressmaker  had  talked  of  sitting  up  all 
night ;  but  there  came  a  recollection  of  red  eyes 
and  pale  cheeks  consequent  upon  such  freaks  ;  so 
to  bed  she  went,  meaning  to  rise  at  four  in  the 
morning.  But  alas  !  she  could  not  sleep,  or  if  for 
a  moment  she  lost  all  consciousness,  she  dreamt  of 
cousin  Robert  making  love  to  somebody  in  a  hor- 
rible Polka  Jacket.  So  up  she  rose  on  the  bitter 
Christmas  morning  at  three  of  the  clock,  and  kin- 
dled a  few  cinders  to  keep  her  from  quite  shiver- 
ing, and  by  the  light  of  a  thin  candle  she  set  about 
her  task. 

We  wonder  what  Miss  Arabella  Brightington  was 
dreaming  of  just  then  ! 

The  tabby  cat  rubbed  against  Susan's  foot,  as  if 
asking  for  a  saucer  of  milk ;  she  was  used  to  a 
candle-light  breakfast  sometimes,  and  did  not  know 
the  hour.  But  she  must  wait  as  well  as  her  mis- 
tress— no  milk  in  the  streets  yet  for  hours. 

See,  daylight  is  breaking  !     And  hark  !  there's 


112  THE  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

a  shrill  young  voice  pouring  out  a  Christmas  carol. 
Foolish  Susan ;  the  tears  are  dropping  on  your 
work :  and  what  is  the  reason — not  that  merry 
carol  surely  ?  Do  tears  stain  blue  silk  ?  We  can 
not  positively  tell ;  but  judging  from  circumstantial 
evidence  should  say  not.  At  any  rate  she  dashes 
them  away,  because — she  has  no  time  to  fret.  The 
mother  must  make  her  own  cap — that's  certain  ; 
and  finally  she  fusses  about  it !  Susan  shows  her 
how,  and  might  almost  as  well  have  done  it  entirely. 

Noon  comes ;  no  chance  of  the  flounce  on  her 
own  gown — that  hope  is  abandoned  entirely. 

Thread  breaks,  needles  snap,  and  pins  drop  out  in 
the  most  rebellious  manner  imaginable.  Susan  is 
getting  nervous,  her  fingers  tremble,  and  she  sees, 
with  prophetic  truth,  she  must  also  give  up  going 
to  the  three  o'clock  dinner ;  this  is  worse  than  giving 
up  the  flounce ;  but  there's  no  help  for  it — the  Polka 
Jacket  cannot  be  done. 

The  mother  talks  of  staying  at  home  to  bear  her 
company  ;  but  as  Susan  justly  says,  "  What's  the 
use  of  that ;  especially  as  there's  no  dinner  pro- 
vided ?  She  will  have  bread  and  cheese,  and  come 
to  tea  :  sure  to  have  some  supper  at  uncle  Tom's 
on  Christmas-day." 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DAY.  113 

The  mother  yields,  though  not  without  some 
kindly  regrets,  to  such  potent  reasonings ;  and 
the  little  dressmaker  is  left  to  her  Christmas  dinner 
of  bread  and  cheese — and  to  work  at  the  Polka 
Jacket.  Once  she  goes  to  the  window  to  see  how 
the  world  looks  outside.  'Flys  and  coaches  rattle 
along ;  brisk  pedestrians  are  smartly  dressed ;  and 
omnibuses  look  gayer  than  usual ;  and  a  remarka- 
bly bright  fire  shines  from  the  opposite  house.  Silly 
Susan  !  tears  again  !  they  only  hinder  your  work, 
and  make  your  eyes  quite  red  as  a  wakeful  night 
would  do. 

Four  o'clock  !  the  Polka  Jacket,  with  its  pipings 
and  linings,  and  buttons,  completed  at  last.  Haif- 
a-mile to  be  carried  home  ;  but  the  little  dressmaker 
almost  flies  along,  and,  extravagant  creature,  spends 
sixpence  to  ride  back  by  omnibus — which  crawls 
the  distance. 

Miss  Brightington  gloried  in  the  Polka  Jacket ; 
especially  as  her  rival  did  not  wear  hers  ;  so  that, 
after  all,  she  might  have  spared  poor  Susan,  with- 
out suffering  very  cruelly  for  it.  Just  as  she  was 
sitting  down  to  her  three  courses,  Susan  Bennett 
was  making  her  toilet  to  join  the  Christmas  party 
at  tea.  The  brown  merino  would  really  do  very  well 
10* 


114  THE  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

without  a  flounce,  and  she  had  contrived  to  sew  a 
bit  of  lace  on  the  top,  that  being  one  of  the  most 
important  of  the  et  ceteras.  She  is  locking  the  doors 
of  the  two  rooms  she  and  her  mother  occupy,  but 
is  so  startled  by  a  loud  knock  that  the  key  drops 
out  of  her  hand.  Who  can  it  be  ?  Somebody  opens 
the  door,  and  the  wind  almost  blows  out  Susan's 
candle,  but  it  does  not  quite ;  and  she  sees  by  the 
flickering  light  that  cousin  Robert  springs  two  steps 
at  a  time  up  the  stairs.  For  that  matter,  though, 
she  knew  his  step  without  staying  to  look  who  it 
was. 

"  How  kind  of  you  to  come  for  me  !"  exclaimed 
Susan. 

"  They  would'nt  let  me  come  before — at  least 
they  began  laughing  and  quizzing.  I  hate  to  be 
quizzed;  don't  you?" 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Susan,  in  the  faintest  of  treble 
notes ;  but  somehow  or  other  her  cousin  heard  the 
word,  and  by  this  time  they  were  out  in  the  street. 

"  How  cold  it  is  !"  said  Robert. 

"Yes — no;  yes;  it  is  cold." 

"  Cold  !  why  your  hand  is  like  ice  !  There  wrap 
the  other  in  your  cloak ;  I'll  keep  this  warm  for 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DAY.  115 

"  Robert !   let  go  !     What  nonsense  !" 
"I  will,  I  say."  But  the  remainder  of  that  con- 
ference is  sacred. 

"  What  a  time  you  must  have  kept  Robert !"  said 
the  grandmother. 

"  She  was  not  quite  ready,"  he  answered  for  her. 
True,  she  had  the  key  to  pick  up  and  one  door  to 
lock,  and  they  had  come  a  long  way  round.  There 
was  a  little  quizzing  after  the  cousins  arrived,  but 
they  did  not  seem  to  mind  it  much.  People  don't 
when  they  have  a  thorough  understanding  between 
themselves. 

Though  Susan  had  no  dinner,  she  ate  very  little 
supper ;  and  yet  she  could  not  be  ill — she  had  such 
a  beautiful  color  :  but  that  might  be  from  her  long 
walk.  Certainly  nobody  would  have  thought  she 
had  sat  up  half  the  night,  and  been  weeping  half 
the  morning.  Cousin  Robert,  notwithstanding  his 
gaiety,  had  always  been  a  bit  of  a  philosopher  ;  he 
said  the  works  of  the  clocks  and  watches  made  him 
think,  and,  as  we  have  said  before,  his  favorite 
maxim  was  "  all  is  for  the  best."  He  is  going  into 
business  for  himself  very  soon  ;  but  he  must  have 
told  Susan  something  more  than  that,  in  their  long 


116  THE  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

walk,  or  she  would  never  have  agreed  with  him 
that  it  was  "  all  for  the  best"  that  he  had  fetched 
her,  and  consequently  that  she  had  had  to  stay  at 
home  and  make  Miss  Arabella  Brightington's  Polka 
Jacket ! 


LITTLE  GREAT  MEN. 

Our  village,  like  all  other  villages,  is  infested 
with  little  great  men.  Some  of  them  have  petty 
offices,  and  hold  their  heads  very  high  upon  the 
imagined  importance  which  this  gives  them.  Others 
have  what  they  suppose  to  be  wonderful  gifts  in 
the  way  of  genius.  Of  these  the  village  portrait 
painter  is  one.  His  faces  are  what  Charles  Surface 
calls  formidable  likenesses.  They  certainly  are 
very  terrible  to  look  at,  especially  if  the  beholder 
has  ever  seen  a  really  good  portrait.  He  receives 
from  five  to  fifteen  dollars  a  portrait ;  and  they  are 
very  dear  at  that.  But  he  imagines  himself  a 
Rubens  or  a  Stuart  at  the  very  least. 

Our  justice  of  the  peace  is  an  official  great  man. 
He  carries  a  gold-headed  cane  always  in  his  hand, 
and  walks  with  a  self-important  strut.    I  never  see 

(117) 


118  LITTLE  GREAT  MEN. 

him  without  recollecting  an  anecdote  of  what  hap- 
pened once  to  William  Penn. 

This  illustrious  man  was  once  travelling  in  Vir- 
ginia, and  being  overtaken  by  a  shower,  he,  to- 
gether with  his  travelling  companion,  another 
Quaker  gentleman,  took  refuge  under  a  shed  be- 
longing to  a  plantation.  The  planter,  considering 
this  proceeding  a  sort  of  trespass,  came  out  of  his 
house,  and  entering  the  shed,  began  to  rate  the 
gentlemen  very  roundly,  and  in  a  loud  voice,  for 
the  liberty  they  had  taken  in  entering  his  pre- 
mises. 

Penn's  friend  answered  him  very  coolly,  giving 
him  to  understand  that  it  was  a  matter  of  very 
little  importance,  and  hardly  worth  talking  about ; 
especially  in  so  commanding  a  style. 

"Pray,  sir,"  said  the  planter,  "do  you  know 
who  I  am  ?" 

"No,  friend,"  said  the  Quaker,  "I  have  no  per- 
sonal knowledge  of  thee." 

"  Then,"  said  the  planter,  "  you  must  know  that 
I  am  a  justice  of  the  peace !" 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  Quaker,  smiling,  and  point- 
ing to  Penn,  "my  friend,  here,  makes  just  such 
things  as  that.     He  is  governor  of  Pennsylvania." 


LITTLE  GREAT  MEN.  119 

It  may  be  easily  imagined  what  a  crest-fallen 
figure  the  little  great  man  cut,  when  he  found 
himself  so  suddenly  and  so  unpleasantly  confronted 
with  a  really  great  man. 

He  begged  a  thousand  pardons  for  his  rudeness, 
was  profuse  in  his  offers  of  hospitality ;  and  wanted 
the  gentlemen  to  have  their  horses  put  up,  and  to 
spend  a  week  with  him.  But  they  were  as  little 
moved  by  his  servility  as  they  had  been  by  his 
impertinence ;  and  the  shower  having  now  passed 
over,  they  mounted  their  horses  and  rode  off,  leav- 
ing the  planter  to  devour  his  chagrin  the  best  way 
he  could.  The  following  story  impresses  a  moral 
connected  with  this  matter  of  greatness  on  a  small 
scale. 


CONSEQUENCE  ;  OR,  DO  YOU  KNOW 
WHO  I  AM? 

It  has  been  said,  though  we  suspect  the  remark 
must  have  emanated  from  one  short  in  stature,  "  that 
all  great  men  are  little  men  ;"  Alexander  the  Great, 
Bonaparte,  Doctor  Watts,  and  a  score  others,  being 
cited  as  illustrations  of  the  fact.  Without  stooping 
to  gainsay  an  opinion  so  manifestly  apocryphal, 
we  will  content  ourselves  with  the  observation  that, 
to  our  certain  knowledge,  all  little  men  are  not 
great  men. 

Mr.  Silas  Sydney  was  a  little  man,  being  barely 
five  feet  in  height,  but,  as  many  a  six-foot  man 
loses  an  inch  by  stooping  in  the  shoulder,  so  he 
gained  an  inch  by  his  unusually  erect  position  ;  and 
besides,  he  wore  boots  with  thick  soles,  and  a  hat 
with  a  high  crown.  Trees  and  plants  are  supposed 
to  stretch  themselves  upwards  in  quest  of  air  and 
light,  but  the  upward  aspiring  of  Mr.  Sydney,  may 
(120) 


CONSEQUENCE — DO  YOU  KNOW  WHO  I  AM.  121 

witho  ut  doing  him  injustice,  be  attributed  to  a  dif- 
ferent origin.  If  ever  the  self-important  conse- 
quence of  a  would-be  great  man  was  set  forth  in  a 
miniature  scale,  it  was  in  the  stinted  proportions  of 
Mr.  Silas  Sydney. 

Deficiency  in  personal  appearance  is,  by  no  means 
a  proper  object  of  reproach,  for  a  plain  casket  may 
contain  a  lovely  jewel,  and  homely  bodies  have  often 
been  the  abode  of  exalted  minds ;  but  when  one  of 
mean  appearance  affects  the  great  and  consequential, 
he  invites  derision  and  makes  himself  a  target  for 
the  shafts  of  ridicule. 

Mr.  Silas  Sydney  had  been  a  small  tradesman, 
and  though  sadly  deficient  in  general  knowledge,  a 
natural  cunning  and  quick-sightedness  in  regard  to 
his  own  interest,  enabled  him  to  extend  his  business 
and  acquire  wealth.  He  was  chosen  churchwarden, 
and  in  course  of  time  appointed  a  magistrate.  Like 
many  others  who  have  risen  rapidly,  he  became  in- 
sufferably vain  and  consequential,  so  much  so,  that 
his  appearance  alone  seemed  to  say,  "  Do  you  know 
who  I  am?" 

We  have  sometimes  wished  that  a  scale  of  ex- 
cellence could  accompany  degrees  in  society,  and 
that  the  higher  a  man  rose  in  station,  the  higher 
11 


122     CONSEQUENCE — DO  YOU  KNOW  WHO  I  AM. 

he  should  be  required  to  ascend  in  wisdom  and 
virtue.  Position  would  then  be  the  standard  of  the 
man,  and  rank  and  dignity  would  receive  the  will- 
ing homage  of  the  head  and  heart.  Such  a  state 
of  things,  however,  is  far  beyond  our  expectation, 
or  our  hope ;  still  we  think  that  it  behoves  every 
one  who  rises  in  life  do  his  best  to  fill  the  position 
he  occupies  creditably,  and  to  fit  himself  for  a  dis- 
charge of  its  duties. 

In  acting  as  a  magistrate,  Mr.  Sydney,  who  had 
never  so  much  as  opened  "  Coke  upon  Littleton," 
or  "Blackstone's  Commentaries,"  in  his  life,  till  the 
very  week  in  which  he  was  appointed  to  the  com- 
mission of  the  peace,  was  of  necessity  greatly  depen- 
dent for  information  on  his  brother  magistrates  and 
the  clerks.  Little  inconvence  might  have  arisen 
from  this  circumstance,  had  he  conducted  himself 
with  becoming  diffidence  and  modesty;  but,  instead 
of  this,  his  upstart  consequence  and  insufferable 
conceit  led  him  into  continual  altercation. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  decide  which  is  the  more 
lamentable  spectacle,  that  of  a  feeble  man  striving 
with  one  of  greater  strength  ;  or  a  man  of  limited 
intellect  playing  the  mental  gladiator  against  one 
of  acknowledged  understanding.     In  each  of  these 


CONSEQUENCE — DO  YOU  KNOW  WHO  I  AM.  123 

unenviable  positions  Mr.  Sydney  was  occasionally 
to  be  found. 

It  happened  that  a  disagreement  took  place  be- 
tween Mr.  Silas  Sydney  and  one  of  his  work-people, 
and  things  were  carried  to  such  a  pitch  that  the  latter 
was  given  into  custody.  Every  one  expected,  when 
the  affair  was  about  to  be  decided,  that  Mr.  Sydney, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  would  retire  from  the  bench, 
and  not  sit  in  judgment  in  his  own  case.  So  far 
however,  from  this  was  the  fact,  that  he  remained 
as  a  member  of  the  court,  and  persisted  in  adjudi- 
cating in  the  most  arbitary  manner.  Rather  than 
sanction  such  barefaced  injustice,  his  brother  ma- 
gistrates unanimously  quitted  the  bench. 

Thus  left  to  himself,  Mr.  Sydney  soon  involved 
himself  with  the  chief  clerk,  to  whom,  in  his  conse- 
quential arrogance,  he  cried  out,  "  Do  you  know  who 
I  am,  sir?" 

Whereupon  the  clerk,  excited  far  beyond  discre- 
tion, replied  in  open  court,  "  Yes,  sir,  I  do  know 
who  you  are.  You  are  a  magistrate  without  law, 
and  a  man  without  modesty." 

On  one  occasion  when  passing  along  the  street, 
Mr.  Sydney  met  a  stout  fellow,  who  was  in  his  cups, 
who  was  bawling  aloud.     Such  a  one  was  a  more 


124     CONSEQUENCE — DO  YOU  KNOW  WHO  I  AM. 

fit  subject  for  the  attention  of  a  policeman,  than 
that  of  a  magistrate.  It  is  by  no  means  a  mark  of 
discretion  %o  struggle,  either  mentally  or  bodily, 
with  a  drunken  man,  and  still  less  if  he  be  powerful 
in  his  frame.  Mr.  Silas  Sydney,  however,  not 
being  a  man  of  discretion  was  free  from  prudential 
regulations.  He  knew  that  he  was  magistrate,  and 
being  thus  "  drest  in  a  little  brief  authority,"  pro- 
ceeded at  once  to  reprimand  the  drunkard. 

"  Do  you  know  who  I  am  ?"  said  he,  finding  that 
little  attention  was  paid  to  his  reproof. 

"No  !"  replied  the  brawler,  "who  are  you?" 

"I  am  a  magistrate." 

"  Then  here's  at  you,  Mr.  Magistrate,"  and  down 
went  his  worship,  measuring  his  length  in  the  mire. 
No  sooner  was  Mr.  Sydney  reinstated  on  his  legs, 
than  he  again  consequentially  vociferated,  "Do  you 
know  who  I  am?" 

"Who  are  you?"  cried  out  the  drunkard. 

"  I  am  a  magistrate."  cried  out  Mr.  Sydney, 
with  even  more  consequence  than  before. 

"Take  that  then,"  was  the  instantaneous  reply 
of  the  staggerer,  again  prostrating  Mr.  Sydney  on 
the  ground.  A  rush  was  now  made  by  some  stran- 
gers, not  to  rescue  the  man  from  the  magistrate  but 


CONSEQUENCE — DO  YOU  KNOW  WHO  I  AM.  125 

the  magistrate  from  the  man,  which  timely  assistance 
in  all  probability  saved  Mr.  Silas  Sydney  from 
another  roll  in  the  dirt. 

On  a  subsequent  occasion,  a  dog,  from  a  cottage 
at  the  skirts  of  the  town,  ran  after  him  barking. 
This  so  much  excited  his  anger,  that  he  forthwith 
proceeded  to  reprove  in  no  measured  terms  the 
poor  cottager  who  owned  the  animal  which  had  of- 
fended him.  "  Do  you  know  who  I  am  ?"  said  he, 
in  his  customary,  consequential  way,  towering  with 
indignation. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  simple  cottager,  "  I  knows 
who  you  be ;  but  the  misfortune  is,  that  my  dog 
doesn't  know  it,  sir." 

As  the  little  great  man  walked  away,  smarting 
with  wounded  pride,  his  mortification  was  height- 
ened by  hearing  a  band  of  boys,  who  happened 
to  be  playing  near,  mimicking  his  voice  and  manner, 
crying  out  to  one  another,  "  Do  you  know  who  I 
am  ?     Do  you  know  who  I  am?" 

This  is  a  world  of  ups  and  downs,  and  Mr.  Syd- 
ney found  it  to  be  such.  His  consequential  disposi- 
tion led  him  to  abandon  his  trade,  and  to  affect  the 
fine  gentleman  ;  but  the  littleness  of  his  real  worth 
so  ill  suited  the  largeness  of  his  pretentions,  that 


126     CONSEQUENCE — DO  YOU  KNOW  WHO  I  AM. 

those  who  were  of  the  grade  to  which  he  aspired, 
had  no  desire  for  his  society.  His  arrogance  made 
him  enemies,  and  his  measures  brought  upon  him 
contempt.  At  last  his  name  disappeared  from  the 
commission  of  the  peace,  his  property  declined,  and 
by  degrees,  without  the  sympathy  of  a  single  being, 
the  little  great  man  became  a  neglected  nobody. 
When  he  left  the  place  he  was  too  unimportant  even 
to  be  missed,  and  too  worthless  to  be  regretted. 

Many  years  have  rolled  away  since  Mr.  Silas 
Sydney's  career,  and  the  records  of  history  are 
very  scanty ;  he  never  had  a  friend,  and  therefore 
cannot,  as  such,  be  remembered.  No  almshouse  is 
inscribed  with  his  name,  and  no  widow  or  orphan 
pronounces  his  name  as  a  benefactor.  In  short 
whether  he  is  dead  or  alive,  nobody  seems  either  to 
know  or  care. 

Sometime  ago  the  inquiry  was  put  to  an  old  in- 
habitant of  the  place,  "  Do  you  remember  any  thing 
of  one  Silas  Sydney?"  "Oh  yes!"  said  he,  "a 
consequential  little  man,  who  wore  thick  heeled  boots, 
and  a  high-crowned  hat.  He  was  made  a  magis- 
trate— more's  the  pity — and  got  laughed  at  by 
all  for  his  arrogance  and  conceited  question,  "  Do  you 
know  who  I  am,  sir  ?  Do  you  know  who  I  am  ?" 


JANE'S  PETS. 

My  sister  Jane  having  no  younger  children 
living  with  her  in  the  house,  with  whom  she  can 
associate  in  her  play  hours,  has  gathered  together 
a  number  of  pets,  in  which  she  takes  great  delight. 

She  generally  keeps  two  or  three  canary  birds,  a 
goldfinch,  a  pair  of  Java  sparrows,  and  a  quaint 
little  troopial.  This  last  bird  she  lets  out  of  his 
cage  in  the  parlor  to  amuse  us  with  his  feats  in 
catching  flies,  and  hopping  about  his  mistress's 
arms  and  shoulders.  He  is  very  tame  and  familiar, 
and  as  full  of  tricks  as  a  monkey. 

With  her  canaries,  she  holds  long  conversations, 
getting  a  whining  or  a  gay  answer  from  them, 
according  to  the  tone  in  which  she  addresses  them. 
They  are  also  suffered  to  come  out  of  their  cages 
occasionally,  and  show  a  great  deal  of  attachment 
to  her. 

Besides   these,    she  has   some  white  rabbits,  a 

(127) 


128  jane's  pets. 

delicate  little  spaniel  of  the  King  Charles  breed, 
and  a  fawn,  which  was  the  gift  of  a  friend  in 
Virginia. 

These  pets  occupy  much  of  Jane's  leisure  time 
very  agreeably;  and  her  penchant  for  them  is 
indulgently  humored  by  her  mother,  who  sympa- 
thizes with  her  fondness  for  many  pets,  although 
she  keeps  but  one  herself — her  great  tortoise  shell 
cat.  This  cat  is  a  character  in  her  way.  It  is  a 
curious  fact  that  although  she  enjoys  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  a  good  mouser,  she  has  never  mani- 
fested any  "  catish"  ferocity  towards  Jane's  pets. 
On  the  contrary  she  seems  to  have  made  up  her 
mind  that  good  policy,  as  well  as  politeness,  re- 
quires her  to  be  on  the  very  best  terms  with  the 
rabbits,  the  spaniel,  and  even  with  the  birds.  In- 
deed she  permits  Tom,  the  troopial,  to  give  her 
occasionally  a  smart  tap  with  his  bill.  This  may 
seem  strange,  but  the  anecdotes  of  Poor  Puss  col- 
lected in  the  article  which  follows,  shows  that  it  is 
by  no  means  unprecedented. 


JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS. 

Few  animals,  I  consider,  have  received  a  greater 
share  of  unjust  calumny  than  the  cat,  and  it  is  my 
intention  in  the  present  paper  to  stand  up  for  it, 
and  prove  its  claim  to  consideration  by  recapitu- 
lating certain  passages  of  feline  history,  with 
which  it  has  been  at  various  times  my  lot  to 
become  acquainted.  I  shall  state  nothing  but  facts. 
If  puss  be  dear  to  me,  truth  is  dearer ;  and  let  no 
man  suspect  me  of  sophistication,*  if  I  tell  him 
what  he  never  heard  before,  and  might  have  been 
slow  to  suspect.  My  feline  friends,  some  traits  of 
whose  personal  history  and  character  I  am  about 
to  recall,  are  all,  with  one  exception,  dead  and 
buried  long  ago.  Did  I  say  "buried?"  Having 
pledged  myself  to  speak  truth,  I  must  recall  that 
expression :  few  of  them,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  were 
buried ;  one  or  two,  I  recollect,  did  find  rest  in 
honored  graves — in  the  garden  under  the  goose- 

(129) 


130         JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS. 

berry  bushes ;  for  the  remainder,  the  reader  will 
be  so  good  as  to  substitute  "dust-boxed"  for 
"  buried,"  And  now,  that  point  being  settled,  we 
may  proceed  to  invoke  from  what  some  long-haired 
poet  calls  "  the  caverns  of  memory,"  the  slumber- 
ing shades  of  Grimalkin  grey  and  his  parti-colored 
compeers,  and  exhibit  their  virtues  to  the  world. 

The  first  was  my  mother's  cat  "  Brindle."  What 
a  host  of  endearing  associations  does  the  name 
recall  to  memory,  and  what  an  endless  panorama 
of  family  pictures,  which  must  all  vanish,  as  they 
come,  without  observation.  Naturalists  have  said 
that  the  cat  is  attached  to  places  and  not  to  per- 
sons. Brindle  would  have  said,  if  he  could  have 
said  any  thing,  that  they  knew  nothing  about  it. 
He  was  an  over-grown  Tom,  of  the  true  tabby  pat- 
tern. All  places  were  alike  to  him,  if  one  person, 
his  mistress,  were  present.  He  would  sit  and  doze 
on  the  narrow  back  of  her  chair  for  hours  together, 
but  preferred  the  middle  of  the  table,  under  her 
eye,  and  close  to  the  book  from  which  she  read. 
He  always  overlooked  the  preparation  of  the 
pastry  when  she  visited  the  kitchen  for  that  pur- 
pose, and  followed  her  up  stairs  and  down  through 
all  her  domestic  duties  daily.  At  night  he  escorted 


JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS.  131 

her  regularly  to  her  chamber  door,  and  then 
descended  to  the  lower  regions  on  a  mousing  expe- 
dition. In  the  morning  he  called  her  regularly  at 
seven  o'clock,  by  crooning  and  scratching  at  the 
door,  where  he  waited  till  she  came  forth.  He 
slept  a  good  part  of  the  day,  but  would  wake  up 
immediately  if  she  rose  to  leave  the  room.  In  case 
of  her  illness  he  took  his  station  on  the  landing 
outside  of  the  chamber  where  she  lay,  and  had  to 
be  fed  there,  as  nothing  could  induce  him  to  leave 
the  spot.  He  was  a  cat  of  no  accomplishments, 
and  would  rarely  submit  to  be  fondled  by  any  but 
his  mistress.  Poor  fellow !  his  fine  coat  and  portly 
proportions  were  the  death  of  him ;  he  was  snatched 
up  by  a  member  of  the  skinners'  company,  while 
watching  at  the  door  for  the  return  of  her  he 
loved,  and  was  slaughtered  for  the  sake  of  his  fur. 
"  Turnkey"  was  intended  for  Brindle's  successor, 
and  might  have  led  a  happy  life  had  he  known  our 
good  intentions  towards  him.  He  was  brought  up  at 
a  dairy-farm,  was  a  magnificent  tortoise-shell  Tom, 
and  derived  his  name  from  the  figure  of  a  large  key 
plainly  visible  on  his  flank.  Happening  to  be  on  a 
visit  to  the  farm  soon  after  the  loss  of  Brindle,  I 
begged  him  of  farmer  Bolton,  and  putting  him  in  a 


132         JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS. 

canvass  bag,  which  I  thoughtlessly  suspended  from 
the  axletree  of  the  gig,  drove  him  home,  a  distance 
of  some  miles.  When  released  from  the  bag  in  my 
mother's  kitchen,  while  Betty  was  preparing,  ac- 
cording to  the  prescribed  formula,  to  butter  his  feet, 
to  prevent  his  straying,  he  darted  like  a  mad  crea- 
ture twenty  times  round  the  room,  shot  over  the 
fire  and  up  the  chimney,  where  being  stopped  by 
the  smoke-jack,  he  came  down  again,  looking  black 
and  furious,  dashed  through  a  pane  of  glass,  and 
made  off.  Of  course  we  gave  him  up  for  lost,  and 
expected  neither  to  see  or  hear  of  him  again.  Not  so, 
however.  When  farmer  Bolton  rose  next  morning, 
Turnkey,  dirty,  draggled,  wet  and  wounded,  and 
shorn  of  half  his  coat,  was  the  first  living  thing 
that  met  his  eyes.  How  he  found  his  way  back  is 
one  of  those  mysteries  not  easily  fathomed.  No 
wonder  that  he  was  shy  of  strangers  ever  after,  and 
would  fly  from  the  house  whenever  they  appeared. 
"Peter"  was  a  stray,  who  came,  as  cats  are  fre- 
quently known  to  do,  to  volunteer  for  the  situation 
of  Brindle,  which  he  must  have  discovered  to  be 
vacant.  He  was  an  undersized  foxy -looking  fellow, 
with  a  disreputable  tail  which  had  suffered  fracture, 
and,  from  lack  of  surgery,  had  healed  with  a  knot 


JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS.         133 

in  the  middle.  But  he  was  a  knowing  tactician, 
and  earned  his  way  to  favor  before  he  claimed  it. 
At  first  he  hung  about  the  house,  seizing  such 
scraps  as  were  offered  to  him  out  of  compassion  for 
his  hungry  face,  and  not  venturing  to  be  familiar 
till  he  had  proved  himself  of  use.  One  night  he 
managed  to  avoided  being  shut  out,  and  the  next 
morning  he  brought  an  enormous  rat,  which  he  had 
killed  in  the  cellar,  and  laid  it  in  the  centre  of  the 
kitchen-floor,  where  he  was  found  keeping  guard 
over  it.  This  exploit  was  interpreted,  as  it  was 
doubtless  meant,  as  an  offer  of  service,  accompanied 
with  a  specimen  of  workmanship.  A  compact  was 
entered  into,  ratified  by  a  basin  of  milk,  into  which 
Peter  dipped  his  whiskers,  and  took  post  at  once  as 
the  house  cat,  giving  general  satisfaction  by  the 
dilligent  discharge  of  his  duties.  He  soon  began 
to  exhibit  extraordinary  talents.  His  first  acquire- 
ment was  the  art  of  opening  the  kitchen-door  for 
himself,  and  this  he  learned  to  do  ere  long  by  a 
single  leap  at  the  latch;  the  dining-room  door, 
however,  presenting  but  a  smooth  brass  handle, 
cost  him  more  pains ;  pawing,  though  it  evidently 
required  a  strong  inducement  to  impel  the  under- 
taking. Though  he  would  not  submit  to  nursing, 
12 


134         JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS. 

the  children  grew  fond  of  him,  and  taught  him  to 
fetch  and  carry.  In  this  he  excelled  the  cleverest 
dogs,  and  liked  the  sport  so  well  that  he  'would 
bring  the  ball  in  his  mouth  and  solicit  a  game  two 
or  three  times  a  day,  He  was  neither  greedy  or  a 
thief,  and  though  he  would  beg  with  the  patience 
and  perseverance  of  a  Carmelite  monk,  it  was  never 
from  choice,  but  at  the  word  of  command,  that  he 
did  so.  He  refused  to  grow  fat  and  sleek.  Per- 
haps this  was  owing  to  his  eating  nothing  but  flesh, 
fish,  and  fowl,  of  which  latter,  by  the  way,  he  con- 
trived to  help  himself  to  a  liberal  quantity,  by  pounc- 
ing from  under  the  cabbage  leaves,  or  out  of  a  tree, 
upon  the  sparrows  in  the  garden.  Peter  died  in 
the  height  of  his  popularity  from  the  bite  of  a  ter- 
rier dog,  who  had  the  reputation  of  having  killed 
half  the  cats  in  the  neighborhood. 

Prince  was  a  spoiled  beauty,  the  pet  of  a 
maiden  lady  whom  I  was  in  the  habit  of  occasion- 
ally visiting  about  twenty  years  ago.  He  was 
proud  beyond  all  parallel,  and  as  much  an  exclu- 
sive as  any  lap-dog  in  Belgravia.  He  was  of  a 
light,  clear  grey  color,  deepening  to  black  along 
the  back  of  the  spine ;  and  of  a  prodigious  size, 
weighing  twenty-four  pounds.     He  fed  from  the 


JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS.         135 

same  fowl  or  joint,  and  the  same  pies  and  pastry 
as  his  mistress ;  and  took  his  siesta  in  a  bed  of 
down,  shaded  by  silk  curtains,  and  supported  on 
gilded  pillars,  constructed  regardless  of  expense 
for  his  sole  use.  He  would  associate  with  none 
of  his  race,  and  savagely  drove  away  all  feline 
intruders  ;  but  having  no  vocation  to  utter  solitude, 
he  cultivated  the  acquaintance  of  a  huge  rat.  If 
it  be  the  natural  and  instinctive  propensity  of  a 
cat  to  destroy  rats,  which  I  neither  affirm  nor 
deny,  then  it  may  be  the  nature  of  excessive  in- 
dulgence to  annihilate  such  a  propensity.  How- 
ever this  may  be,  I  have  on  several  occasions  been 
witness  to  the  following  scene,  which  I  can  account 
for  on  no  other  principle.  Prince  dined  with  his 
mistress  daily  at  three  o'clock.  His  dinner  con- 
sisting of  meat  and  vegetables  for  the  first  course, 
was  served  upon  a  large  plate  laid  upon  the  hearth 
rug  before  the  fire.  So  soon  as  it  was  set,  the 
creature  would  walk  round  it  several  times,  utter- 
ing a  kind  of  whimpering  cry,  at  which  his  friend 
the  rat  would  come  forth  from  beneath  the  fender, 
and  both  would  at  once  fall  to  eating  the  food. 
Rat  was  a  fine  whiskery  guest,  but  not  nearly  so 
polite   as  Prince,  and   would   eat    with  ravenous 


136  JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS. 

haste,  snatching  dainty  morsels  from  beneath  his 
very  nose.  This  behavior  Prince  bore  with  per- 
fect good  temper ;  but  when  rat,  not  content  with 
clearing  his  own  side  of  the  plate,  veered  round  to 
that  at  which  Prince  was  leisurely  feeding,  the 
latter  would  lift  his  paw,  and  with  a  sound  box  on 
the  ear  return  him  to  his  own  position.  Rat  never 
withdrew  while  a  scrap  remained,  though  he  van- 
ished immediately  when  the  affair  was  over.  This 
friendship  endured  to  the  best  of  my  recollection, 
about  two  years ;  and  when  an  attempt  was  made 
to  put  an  end  to  it  by  stopping  up  the  hole  in  the 
flooring  from  which  rat  emerged  at  his  friend's 
call,  Prince  refused  to  eat  his  dinner  at  all,  and 
would  have  starved  had  not  his  friend  been  restored 
to  him.  How  this  anomalous  friendship  originated 
no  one  could  guess.  Rats  and  cats,  as  we  all 
know,  have  been  trained  by  professed  animal 
tamers  to  live  amicably  together ;  but  this  is  the 
only  instance,  as  far  as  I  am  aware,  of  two  ani- 
mals of  these  hostile  races  having  spontaneously 
cultivated  a  friendship  for  each  other.  Prince,  in 
the  end,  was  mercifully  killed,  to  save  him  from 
the  agonies  of  dying  of  indigestion,  to  which  he 
had  become  a  victim  through  over-indulgence. 


JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS.         137 

Cats  are  sometimes  taxed  with,  a  want  of  grati- 
tude ;  but  this  is  a  charge  which  no  one  who  is 
systematically  kind  to  them  would  ever  think  of 
making.  The  fact  is,  they  have  more  discrimina- 
tion of  human  character  than  most  dogs  possess, 
and  are  slow  to  testify  attachment  which  may  not 
be  deserved  or  reciprocated.  Pincher  wags  his 
tail  and  licks  the  hands  of  a  dozen  benefactors  in 
a  day,  if  they  turn  up.  Puss  rarely  bestows  her 
affections  on  more  than  one,  and/that  one  must  be 
essentially  a  keeper  at  home,  a  part  and  parcel 
of  the  establishment  of  which  puss  is  a  member. 
She  manifests  her  gratitude  much  in  the  same  way 
as  the  dog,  that  is,  by  licking  the  hands  of  her 
benefactor,  or  rubbing  herself  against  his  feet  or 
garments ;  and  if  such  demonstrations  are  much 
less  frequent  with  the  cat  than  with  the  dog,  it 
may  be  that  they  are  none  the  less  sincere.  A 
playful  tabby  of  our  acquaintance,  in  gambolling 
with  a  ball  of  worsted,  unhappily  swallowed  a 
needle  and  a  portion  of  the  thread  which  had  been 
left  thrust  through  the  ball.  In  the  course  of  a 
few  days  the  needle  worked  its  way  to  the  shoulder, 
which  swelled  and  festered  into  an  unsightly 
gathering.  Unable  to  walk  about,  puss  lay  in  a 
12* 


138         JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS. 

corner,  moaning  with  pain.  A  child,  whose  com- 
panion and  playfellow  she  had  long  been,  thought 
of  examining  the  wound  to  see  if  any  thing  could 
be  done  for  the  relief  of  her  favorite.  The  exami- 
nation led  to  the  discovery  of  the  needle  beneath 
the  skin.  The  child  tenderly  urged  it  to  the  sur- 
face, and  drew  it  gently  forth,  together  with  a  yard 
of  worsted  with  which  it  was  threaded.  The  operation, 
so  successfully  performed,  restored  instant  ease  to 
the  cat.  Any  one  who  could  have  witnessed  the 
strange  antics  by  which  puss  sought  to  express  her 
gratitude — the  licking,  patting,  rubbing,  and  actual 
embracing  of  the  child  that  ensued,  together  with 
the  indescribable  tones,  all  but  words,  by  which  her 
feelings  were  in  a  manner  articulated — would  have 
formed  a  different  idea  of  feline  gratefulness  from 
that  which  is  generally  current.  We  might  adduce 
other  instances  of  the  kind ;  but  we  must  pass  on  to 
illustrate  feelings  and  faculties  of  a  yet  higher  order, 
as  evidence  in  our  next  sketch. 

In  London,  cats  are  frequently  the  victims  of 
cruel  negligence,  from  being  thoughtlessly  aban- 
doned by  their  owners  upon  a  change  of  residence. 
Poor  puss  is  too  often  omitted  from  the  catalogue 
of  "goods  removed,"  and  is  left  to  bewail  her  fate 


JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS.  139 

in  the  empty  house,  in  which  she  is  sometimes 
starved  to  death  through  the  absence  of  any  tenant ; 
or,  escaping  that  fate,  has  to  subsist  by  hunting 
and  foraging  upon  the  cat's  common  ground,  the 
roofs  of  outhouses,  the  gardens,  and  garden-walls 
of  the  district.  Sometimes  puss  has  a  family  to 
rear  under  these  distressing  circumstances,  and 
half-a-dozen  mouths  to  provide  for  without  the  aid 
of  the  cat's-meat-man  or  the  milkwoman.  How  she 
manages  to  get  through  the  difficult  undertaking  is 
more  than  we  can  explain  categorically ;  but  the 
following  sample  of  maternal  anxiety,  prudence 
and  knowledge  of  the  world  in  a  cat,  may  serve  to 
throw  some  light  upon  the  business.  A  friend, 
whose  avocations  call  him  early  to  the  city,  was 
lately  making  his  morning  toilet,  when  he  observed 
the  abandoned  cat  of  a  neighbor,  who  had  removed 
some  time  before,  stealthily  surmounting  his  garden 
wall.  She  carried  a  kitten  in  her  mouth ;  and, 
finding  the  back  door  open,  flew  past  the  servant, 
darted  into  the  house,  ran  up  stairs,  and  deposited 
the  kitten  on  the  soft  rug  before  the  parlor  fire, 
retreating  immediately  without  beat  of  drum.  The 
kitten,  on  examination,  was  found  half  dead  with 
cold  and  hunger,  and  almost  in  the  last  stage  of 


140         JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS. 

existence.  It  was  of  course  fed  with  a  little  warm 
milk,  and  encouraged  to  get  well  if  it  could.  A 
few  days  effected  a  wonderful  change,  and  within 
a  week  it  was  as  well  and  playful  as  kittens  gene- 
rally are.  In  a  fortnight  it  had  grown  quite  stout 
and  strong ;  and  then,  at  the  same  hour  in  the 
morning,  the  mother  re-appeared  in  precisely  the 
same  way,  with  another  sick  and  starved  infant  in 
her  mouth,  which  also  she  deposited  in  the  same 
way  upon  the  rug.  Then,  driving  the  first  and 
now  fat  kitten  before  her,  the  two  descended  to  the 
garden.  But  now  there  was  a  difficulty  to  be  got 
over,  which  puss,  with  all  her  forethought,  had  not 
anticipated.  The  first  visiter  had  grown  so  fat  and 
heavy  that  the  mother  could  not  carry  it  in  her 
mouth ;  and  yet  it  was  not  strong  enough  to  leap 
to  the  top  of  the  garden  wall.  Happily  the  dust 
bin  presented  a  half-way  station ;  but  even  this  was 
too  high  a  leap  for  the  kitten,  who  appeared  un- 
willing to  make  the  atttempt.  Twenty  times  at 
least  did  the  mother  jump  up  and  down,  to  show 
the  youngster  how  it  was  to  be  done.  At  last  the 
kitten  plucked  up  courage  and  made  an  effort", 
which  only  succeeded  at  length  by  the  mother's 
taking  her  station  on  the  top  and  seizing  it  by  the 


JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS.         141 

neck  as  it  leaped  to  meet  her.  Thus  the  two  got 
clear  off  and  never  again  made  their  appearance. 
The  second  kitten,  like  the  first,  soon  grew  strong 
and  frolicsome,  and  was  left  in  the  enjoyment  of 
its  comfortable  home  without  further  visit  from  the 
parent. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  the  circumstances 
which  drove  the  mother  cat,  in  this  instance  (for 
the  truth  of  which  I  am  in  a  condition  to  vouch,) 
to  these  extraordinary  proceedings.  We  know  that 
she  had  herself  been  accustomed  to  an  in-door  life, 
and  no  doubt  the  recollection  of  the  warmth,  and 
comfort,  and  regular  feeding  she  had  there  enjoyed 
prompted  her  to  secure  such  a  position  for  her  sick 
offspring.  We  may  fairly  suppose,  as  she  did  not 
come  again,  that  some  of  her  family  (for  cats  rarely 
have  so  few  as  two  kittens)  had  perished  from  cold 
and  hardship  before  she  had  recourse  to  the  step 
she  took  to  preserve  the  remaining  two.  She  must 
have  known,  too,  and  in  her  way  reasoned  upon  it, 
that  housekeepers  kept  but  one  cat,  and  that  it 
was  necessary  to  remove  the  first  in  order  to  secure 
the  safety  of  the  second.  How  cleverly  she  car- 
ried out  her  plan,  and  how  pertinaciously  she 
adhered  to  it,  we  have  seen. 


142  JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS. 

I  am  of  opinion  that  cats  differ  as  much  in  char- 
actei  as  human  beings  do ;  and,  like  human  beings, 
their  character  is  very  much  to  be  predicated  from 
their  countenances.  No  two  are  ever  seen  alike, 
and  they  vary  as  much  in  the  conformation  of 
their  skulls  as  do  the  different  races  of  mankind. 
Southey,  in  his  "Doctor,"  gives  a  curious  chapter 
upon  the  cats  of  his  acquaintance — a  chapter  in 
which  humor  and  natural  history  are  agreeably 
mingled  together ;  he  was  evidently  a  close  ob- 
server of  the  habits  of  poor  puss,  and  took  much 
delight  in  the  whims,  frolics,  and  peculiarities  of 
his  favorites.  Gilbert  White,  in  his  "Natural 
History  of  Selborne,"  records  an  instance  of  a  cat 
who  suckled  a  young  hare,  who  followed  her  about 
the  garden,  and  came  jumping  to  her  call  of  affec- 
tion. The  Rev.  Mr.  Sawley  of  Elford,  near  Lich- 
field, once  took  the  young  ones  out  of  a  hare  which 
was  shot.  They  were  alive,  and  the  cat,  who  had 
lately  lost  her  own  kittens,  carried  them  off — it 
was  supposed  to  eat  them ;  but  it  soon  appeared 
that  it  was  affection  and  not  hunger  that  actuated 
her,  as  she  suckled  them  and  brought  them  up  as 
their  mother. 

Cats  may  be  trained  to  obedience  and  to  regular 


JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS.         143 

habits  by  those  who  choose  to  take  the  necessary 
pains.  We  have  seen  a  cat  sit  at  table,  spectacles 
on  nose,  apparently  reading  a  big  volume,  and 
occasionally  turning  over  the  leaves  with  all  the 
gravity  of  a  philosopher.  Some  time  ago — it  may 
be  ten  years — a  man  appeared  in  London  with  an 
exhibition  of  cats,  four  of  which  drew  him  about 
the  room  in  a  small  chariot.  They  were  introduced 
to  the  public  as  "  Tibby,  Tabby,  Tottle,  and  Tott," 
and  possessed  various  accomplishments,  which  some 
of  our  readers  may  possibly  have  witnessed.  In 
France,  the  cat  (puss  is  a  word  unknown  there,) 
plays  a  prominent  part  in  the  shops  of  fashion 
frequented  by  the  ladies.  She  has  a  cushion  on 
the  counter,  where  she  sits,  or  lies  coiled  up  all 
day  long,  soothed  by  the  caresses  of  the  customers 
waiting  their  turn  to  be  served.  She  is  a  pampered 
idol,  fond  of  sweetmeats,  and  grows  to  an  enormous 
size,  the  bigger  the  better  and  the  more  creditable 
to  the  establishment.  There,  too,  she  is  an  article 
of  commerce,  and  is  bred  and  reared  for  the 
market — a  fine  cat  being  a  necessary  appendage 
to  a  well-furnished  house. 

But  I  must  cut  off  my  cats'  tales,  lest  I  be 
accused  of  a  design  upon  the  reader's  patience, 


144  JUSTICE  TO  POOR  PUSS. 

while  my  real  design  is  upon  his  compassion.  In 
vindicating  the  claims  of  a  persecuted  race  to 
more  merciful  consideration,  I  have  brought  them 
forward  that  they  might  speak  for  themselves. 
The  essence  of  their  united  appeals  may  be  sum- 
med up  in  three  words,  justice  to  puss  ! 


USEFULNESS. 

My  worthy  uncle  often,  in  the  intervals  of  busi- 
ness and  study,  gives  me  a  little  extemporaneous 
lecture ;  some  times  his  subject  is  the  law,  the 
best  methods  of  studying ;  sometimes,  general 
literature,  in  which  he  is  very  well  read.  At  other 
times  he  expatiates  on  real  life  and  the  social 
system.  Here  he  is  quite  at  home,  and  draws 
largely  on  his  own  varied  experience  for  illustration. 

To-day,  his  subject  was  the  importance  of  every 
person  endeavoring,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  to 
make  himself  really  useful.  He  went  so  far  as  to 
say  that  this  should  be  every  one's  grand  and 
paramount  object.  Self-indulgence  and  self-ag- 
grandizement, he  said,  not  only  hindered  our 
usefulness,  but  very  often  led  people  into  the 
greatest  mistakes  and  even  crimes,  from  which 
they  would  have  been  saved  by  making  usefulness 
their  object. 

13  (145) 


146  USEFULNESS. 

"But,"  I  inquired,  "were  there  not  many  who 
are  too  poor,  too  weak  and  insignificant  to  hope 
that  they  can  he  of  any  use  in  the  world  ?" 

"No,"  said  my  uncle,  "not  one.  I  will  illus- 
trate this  by  a  story,"  and  he  read  the  story  which 
follows. 


THE  CRIPPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE 
TYROL. 

"  God  has  Ms  plan 
For  every  man." 

Tyrolese  Pkovbeb. 

This  saying  was  once  exemplified  in  Tyrol  by 
the  short  and  simple  history  of  a  poor  crippled  boy 
whose  memory  is  still  cherished  there. 

About  fifty  years  ago  a  soldier's  widow  came 
with  an  only  child  to  reside  in  a  small  hut  near  to 
one  of  those  romantic  villages  which  may  be  seen 
nestled  amid  the  splendid  mountains  of  that  country 
on  the  table-lands,  or  sierras,  which  afford  space  for 
the  habitations  of  the  mountaineers,  who  there 
shelter  in  winter  the  numerous  flocks  they  drive  in 
the  summer  to  pasturage  on  the  heights  above.  That 
village  was  the  scene  of  busy  industry ;  the  people 
were  independent  and  comfortable;  they  worked 
for  themselves,  and,  except  the  emperor,  to  whom 

(147) 


148   THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL. 

they  were  loyally  devoted,  they  called  no  man  lord. 
Still,  at  the  time  when  this  poor  widow  took  up  her 
abode  there,  agitation  and  fear  had  invaded  this 
once  happy  and  peaceful  spot.  It  was  the  period 
when  the  reckless  ambition  of  Napoleon  deluged 
Europe  with  blood  ;  this  widow's  husband  had  fallen 
fighting  against  him  in  the  fearful  battle  of  Auster- 
litz.  Had  the  issue  of  that  battle  been  different, 
and  the  army  in  which  he  served  been  victorious,  it 
is  probable  that  the  bereaved  wife  would  have  felt 
her  loss  just  as  deeply,  for  what  the  world  calls 
glory  does  not  heal  a  bleeding  heart,  nor  atone  for 
the  individual  sufferings  which  war  occasions.  The 
widow  was  very  poor,  and  as  the  partner  of  a  sol- 
dier's life,  she  had  been  long  separated  from  the 
friends  of  her  youth :  her  affliction  was  then  such  a 
common  one  that  it  excited  little  interest ;  and  the 
grief  which  she  felt  the  deepest  was  just  that  which 
caused  her  to  be  of  no  consequence  to  the  little 
community  among  which  she  came. 

It  has  been  already  said  she  had  one  child — a 
maimed,  disabled  boy.  The  dangers  to  which  the 
mother  had  been  exposed,  the  hardships  which  had 
attended  his  infant  life,  produced  this  effect.  Hans, 
the  widow's  son,   was  deformed ;    his  figure  was 


THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OP  THE  TYROL.       149 

drawn  considerly  to  one  side,  and  he  had  very  little 
power  in  using  his  arms.  This  was  a  sore  trial  to 
the  poor  woman ;  often  would  she  look  at  her  boy 
and  sigh,  for  she  thought  in  her  age  she  should  be 
left  without  aid  or  support ;  she  could  no  longer 
work  for  him,  and  he  could  neither  work  for  him- 
self nor  her.  But  when  the  murmuring  thought 
found  entrance  to  her  heart,  she  hid  it  there,  or 
rather  she  prayed  to  God  to  take  it  thence ;  she 
never  let  her  son  perceive  it;  she  would  have  him 
only  to  feel  that  he  was  the  solace  of  her  life.  And 
so  he  was ;  a  true  mother's  love  is  ever  most  strongly 
shown  to  the  child  that  needs  her  love,  her  care,  her 
toils ;  and  beyond  this  maternal  feeling  were  her 
affections  drawn  to  him. 

Hans  was,  moreover,  a  kind  boy,  an  affectionate, 
tender  son  ;  he  was  naturally  of  a  thoughtful,  re- 
flective disposition  ;  the  peculiarities  of  his  consti- 
tution tendered  to  render  him  so.  Separated  by 
his  bodily  infirmity  from  the  rude  sports,  the  hardy 
pursuits,  and  daring  adventures,  in  which  the  other 
young  mountaineers  engaged,  that  grave,  reflective 
cast  of  countenance,  which  characterizes  the  bold, 
independent,  and  gay,  while  deeply  superstitious, 
Tyrolese,  was  in  his  blended  with  actual  melancholy 
13* 


150   THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL. 

thoughtfulness.  His  mother's  tender  care  had  not 
prevented  him  from  gaining  a  knowledge  of  his 
helplessness ;  and  his  inability  to  assist  her  secretly 
preyed  on  his  heart.  When  he  saw  her,  for 
instance,  carrying  a  burden  he  would  run  to  relieve 
her,  but,  though  active  enough  in  running,  his  arms 
had  no  power ;  as  a  child  his  mother  might  de- 
ceive him  into  a  belief  that  he  was  of  use,  but  as  a 
lad  of  fifteen  years  of  age  that  kind  concealment 
could  no  longer  succeed,  and,  at  that  age,  being  the 
time  when  this  story  commences,  the  state  of  his 
country  was  the  means  of  fully  impressing  on  his 
sensitive  mind,  the  conviction  of  his  own  uselessness. 
The  arbitrary  will  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  then 
in  the  zenith  of  his  glory  had  decreed  that  Tyrol 
should  belong  to  Bavaria,  and  not  to  Austria,  and 
a  French  and  Bavarian  army  was  already  garrisoned 
in  the  country.  We  do  not  mean  to  discuss  the 
propriety  of  the  attachment  which  the  Tyrolese 
shoAved  to  the  latter ;  the  chief  reason  of  their 
attachment  was  however  a  right  one  ;  it  was  that 
their  once  independent  land  had  passed  to  the  do- 
minion of  Austria,  by  right  of  legitimate  succession ; 
their  last  native  princess,  Margaret,  having  married 
a  prince  of  the  house  of  Hapsburg,  who  became 


THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL.       151 

emperor  of  Austria,  and  as  such,  added  his  wife's 
dominion  to  his  own.  Royalty  and  religion  had 
hitherto  been  closely  combined  in  Tyrol,  and  the 
aversion  its  people  testified  to  a  union  inforced  by 
the  French,  sprang  from  the  strength  of  those  prin- 
ciples ;  they  regarded  them  Avith  horror,  and  a 
resolute  zeal  in  the  defence  of  their  country  and 
their  religion,  had  begun  to  animate  men,  women, 
and  even  children  throughout  that  mountain  land. 

At  the  juncture  of  which  we  now  write,  that  va- 
liant struggle  was  beginning  which  has  afforded 
themes  to  many  pens.  Austria,  unable  to  compete 
with  Napoleon,  withdrew  the  forces  stationed  in 
Tyrol,  and  left  its  people  to  defend  themselves : 
their  resistance  to  the  powerful  invader  was  one  of 
the  most  celebrated  and  most  successful  that  history 
records. 

The  Pass  of  Finstermunz  still  presents  its  terrible, 
records  to  the  eye  of  the  traveller,  who,  amidst  the 
sublimity  of  the  spectacle,  recalls  to  memory  the 
awful  scene  enacted  there  in  the  time  to  which  our 
story  refers.  This  pass  lies  between  the  towns  of 
Landeck  and  Meran ;  a  splendid  road  has  since 
been  formed  there  by  engineering  skill,  but  even 
still,  amid  modern  improvements,  the  passage  be- 


152   THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL. 

tween  the  rocks  is  so  narrow  in  places  as  to  appear 
a  mere  cleft  formed  by  the  violence  of  the  torrent, 
which  is  heard  roaring  in  the  deep  gulf  below.  These 
rocks  rise  towering  over  that  narrow  pass,  clothed 
sometimes  with  trees,  at  others  opening  splendid 
views  of  snow-gemmed  mountains,  and  green  spark- 
ling vales ;  while  the  ceaseless  roar  of  the  strug- 
gling water  is  the  only  sound  that  is  heard.  At 
times,  as  its  passage  opens,  the  nearly  calmed  and 
deep  blue  stream  of  the  river  Inn,  crested  with 
some  of  the  snow-white  foam  which  tells  of  its 
struggle,  is  seen  gliding  by ;  at  others,  rushing 
wildly ;  or  again,  as  the  gorge  contracts,  is  dimly 
beheld,  like  a  flake  of  snow,  tossed  in  the  dark  gulf 
through  which  its  suffocated  murmurs  alone  an- 
nounces its  progress.  From  the  little  bridges  which 
span  this  torrent,  the  views  of  the  white  glaciers 
and  green  mountain  fastnesses,  with  the  peasant's 
dwellings  and  the  pretty  green  church  spires,  are 
charming ;  but  at  one  spot  the  rocks  on  each  side 
curl  over  so  as  almost  to  meet ;  and  threaten  to 
drop  on  those  who  pass  under  them  ;  which,  indeed, 
they  would  probably  at  some  time  do,  if  they  were 
not  propped  by  the  stems  of  felled  trees.  At  this 
wildest  and  most  romantic  spot,  the  bridge  crosses 


THE  CKIPPLED  OKPHAN  OF  THE  TYKOL.      153 

the  torrent  at  a  height  which,  as  you  attempt  to 
gaze  down  on  the  tossing  snow-flakes  beneath,  con- 
veys a  sense  of  dizziness.  Here  an  old,  once  for- 
tified gateway,  and  the  remains  of  an  ancient 
tower,  remind  one  of  the  times  when  fierce  rob- 
ber-knights held  indomitable  forts  in  such  fast- 
nesses of  nature.  At  this  spot  there  is  now  a 
quiet  inn,  and  a  very  little  chapel.  "  Rest  and 
give  thanks,"  seems  to  be  the  idea  presented  by 
their  united  appearance. 

This  sublime  mountain  pass,  so  remarkable  for 
natural  beauty,  has  acquired  a  terrific  celebrity  in 
history  from  the  epoch  which  just  followed  the 
incident  that  exemplified,  as  we  have  said,  the 
Tyrolese  proverb  already  quoted.  We  fervently 
hope  that  such  celebrities  are  at  an  end ;  but  were 
there  ever  a  cause  which  could  sanction  the 
slaughter  of  our  fellow  creatures,  it  is  the  defence 
of  our  land,  our  homes,  and  our  faith :  it  is  when 
the  unjust  invader  is  resisted,  and  the  motto  of  a 
people  is  that  which  the  Tyrolese  flag  bore  in- 
scribed upon  its  folds — 

"For  God,  our  Emperor,  and  our  Fatherland." 

Here,  as  we  stand  in  this  sublime  scene,  and 
look  up  at  the  tree- covered  heights,  and  bring  our 


154   THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL. 

eye  down  over  the  shattered  masses  of  rock  that 
lie  in  the  descent,  we  recall  that  terrible  event,  and 
involuntarily  repeat  the  words  : 

"  Fit  spot  to  make  the  invaders  rue, 
The  many  fallen  before  the  few." 

For  it  was  here  that,  in  the  year  1809,  upwards 
of  ten  thousand  French  and  Bavarian  troops  were 
destroyed  by  an  unseen  foe.  An  immense  ava- 
lanche of  felled  trees  and  broken  rocks  had  been 
prepared,  and  was  held  suspended  along  the 
heights  :  as  the  advancing  army  marched  in  undis- 
turbed order  along  this  romantic  pass,  the  foremost 
heard  the  startling  words,  "  1st  es  zeit  ?"  "Is  it 
time  ?"  repeated  above  them.  The  officer  halted, 
and  sent  back  to  ask  directions.  He  was  ordered 
to  go  forward.  They  went  on.  That  word  was 
repeated,  and  a  louder  voice  in  a  tone  of  solemn 
command,  announced  it  was  time  !  and  desired  the 
avalanche  to  be  let  go.  It  was  loosened ;  it  thun- 
dered down ;  and  of  all  the  living  host  who  a  few 
minutes  before  had  trod  that  pass,  few,  if  any, 
escaped  from  it  alive. 

It  was  this  determination  to  resist,  and  expel 
the  foreign  forces  then  stationed  in  their  country, 
that   had  begun  to  animate  the  Tyrolese  at  the 


THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL.   155 

time  when  our  poor  Hans,  having  reached  his 
fifteenth  year,  might  be  expected  by  the  youth  of 
the  village  to  partake  in  their  enthusiasm.  That 
enthusiasm  was  general ;  a  secret  understanding 
prevailed  among  all  the  people  of  Tyrol ;  arrange- 
ments were  made  with  noiseless  resolution;  intel- 
ligence of  the  advance  of  the  Bavarian  troops  was 
to  be  conveyed  from  post  to  post,  from  village  to 
village,  by  means  of  signal  fires,  materials  for 
which  were  laid  ready  on  the  rocky  heights. 

The  village  of  which  I  have  spoken  lay  directly 
in  the  line  of  route  which  that  army  would  take  ; 
and  with  the  animation  and  bustle  it  displayed,  a 
great  degree  of  fear  and  anxiety  mingled.  The 
old  people  felt  the  latter  emotions — the  dread  of 
being  surprised,  of  having  their  houses  burned, 
their  property  destroyed,  themselves  killed,  or 
driven  shelterless  to  the  mountains ;  such  thoughts 
disturbed  more  or  less  every  home,  but  did  not 
shake  the  courage  and  resolution  of  the  people. 
Even  the  children  acted  in  their  plays  what  they 
heard  their  fathers  and  older  brothers  talk  of,  or 
saw  them  practise ;  and  thus  from  the  aged  and 
timid — the  latter  indeed  were  few — down  to  the 
child  who  thoughtlessly  mimicked  in  his  sports  the 


156   THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL. 

hostile  events  that  were  approaching,  only  one 
theme  was  heard  in  the  village,  or  in  the  whole 
country ;  only  one  spirit  seemed  to  be  felt,  and 
scarcely  any  persons  were  to  be  found  who  were 
not  preparing,  in  some  way,  to  take  a  part  in  the 
coming  struggle.  I  say  scarcely  any — for  it  will 
have  been  already  seen  that  two,  at  least,  of  that 
small  community  knew  their  part  was  to  sit  still 
and  see  how  the  matter  would  go.  These  were  the 
soldier's  widow  and  her  deformed  boy.  The  widow 
had  had  enough  of  war ;  she  had  known  its  reali- 
ties, while  many  of  her  young  neighbors  were 
deceived  by  its  visionary  renown.  She  had  felt 
its  horrors,  while  they  contemplated  in  imagination 
its  glories.  She  looked  now  at  her  disabled  son, 
and  did  not  sigh,  as  she  had  often  done,  in  think- 
ing of  his  helplessness. 

"  Ah,  Hans,"  said  she  abruptly,  as  she  gazed 
upon  him  one  evening,  "it  is  well  for  us  now  that 
thou  canst  be  of  little  use ;  they  would  take  thee 
from  me  to  serve  thy  country,  my  boy,  wert  thou 
fit  to  be  a  soldier."  The  widow  did  not  know  how 
very  tender  was  the  chord  she  touched  in  her  son's 
mind. 

Hans  had  long  been   secretly  suffering  much 


THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL.      157 

pain  from  the  rude  discovery  of  the  very  fact  she 
thus  alluded  to.  That  secret  pain  had  been  ex- 
posed even  to  a  tender  mother's  eye.  Now  the 
wound  was  touched.  Hans  bowed  down  his  head ; 
his  mother  had  not  observed  that  of  late  he  had 
been  more  peculiarly  pale,  silent,  and  averse  to  go 
out.  Now  the  large  tear  that  suddenly  rolled  down 
the  pale  cheek  and  dropped  upon  his  knee,  told  her 
that  the  feelings  of  the  youth  had  been  compressed 
in  his  own  bosom.  That  tear  seemed  to  fall  upon 
the  mother's  heart :  she  felt  its  cause. 

"  My  son,  what  aileth  thee  ?" 

"  Mother  !  I  am  useless  !"  cried  the  youth,  with 
a  burst  of  now  irrepressible  grief. 

"  Useless!"  the  widow  repeated  ;  but  the  tone 
in  which  she  uttered  the  word  might  seem  to  denote 
some  little  surprise  at  the  discovery  her  son  had 
only  then  made. 

"  Yes,  useless,"  Hans  continued :  "  look  round  our 
village — all  are  busy,  all  preparing,  all  ready  to 
strive  for  homes  and  fatherland — and  I  am  utterly 
useless !" 

"  My  boy,  my  kind,  dear  son,  thou  art  not  use- 
less  to  me." 

"Even  to  thee — I  cannot  work  for  thee ;  cannot 
14 


158   THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL. 

in  thy  age  support  thee.     Ah !  I  know  all  now. 
Why  was  I  made,  mother?" 

"  Hush,  Hans,"  said  his  mother:  "these  repining 
thoughts  become  you  not.  You  will  live  to  find 
the  truth  of  our  old  proverb : — 

'  God  has  his  plan 
For  every  man.' " 

Little  did  Hans  think  that  ere  a  few  weeks  had 
passed  this  truth  was  to  be  verified  in  a  most 
remarkable  manner. 


Easter  Monday  came — the  most  festive  season 
in  the  Tyrol ;  and  the  non-arrival  of  the  expected 
invaders  had,  in  some  degree,  relaxed  the  vigilance 
of  the  inhabitants.  The  holiday  in  question,  we 
may  observe,  in  Switzerland,  resembles  somewhat 
old  Christmas  in  England  ;  families  meet,  presents 
are  exchanged ;  the  toys,  gloves,  the  ornaments  of 
deer's  horn,  and  other  articles  of  Tyrolese  industry, 
are  all  in  request  then.  Early  in  the  morning  of 
the  Easter  Monday  of  which  we  now  speak,  child- 
ren were  seen  carrying  bunches  of  flowers  to  their 


THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL.       159 

grand-parents,  aunts,  or  other  old  relatives,  whose 
doors  had  been  wreathed  with  branches  of  trees, 
interspersed  with  flowers,  during  the  preceding 
night ;  and  the  children  now  stood  before  them, 
and  sang  the  hymns  which  are  often  heard  in  their 
country.  Women,  too,  were  seen  with  little  bas- 
kets on  their  arms,  hastening  to  the  house  of  the 
poor  curate  to  present  their  small  offerings;  and 
young  men  brought  some  simple  present  to  lay  on 
the  windows  of  the  maidens  who  they  hoped 
before  the  next  Easter  should  be  their  wives.  But 
what  was  the  most  curious  feature  in  the  pleasant 
scene  was  the  cattle  procession,  which  takes  place 
on  this  day ;  for  now  the  winter  is  over  and  gone, 
the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  hath  come,  and 
the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  the  land.  Now 
go  the  cattle  forth  from  the  sheds  where  they  have 
been  sheltered  from  snow  and  frost,  and  wend  their 
way  gladly  to  the  mountains.  The  pride  of  the 
family,  the  favorite  cow,  goes  first,  and  proud  of 
her  honors  she  seems  to  be,  as  she  steps  boldly  on 
in  advance,  her  bell  tinkling  at  her  neck,  her  head 
loaded  with  ornaments,  and  her  horns  wreathed 
with  flowers ;  all  the  flocks  are  more  or  less  adorned, 
but  she  is  the  queen  in  her  regal  state.     Behind 


160   THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN"  OF  THE  TYROL.   . 

them  come  the  joyous  owners,  or  their  herdsmen, 
playing  on  musical  instruments,  and  adding  noise 
to  the  pomp.  What  a  rural,  what  a  pleasant 
scene  !  There  is  nothing  rude  or  revolting  in  this 
merriment;  a  sense  of  thanksgiving  seems  to 
mingle  with  it ;  one  sees,  at  least,  the  expression 
of  gratitude,  the  acknowledgment  of  God  as  the 
Author  and  Giver  of  all  good  things.  Yes,  I  have 
felt  how  pleasant  it  is  to  see  this  acknowledgment 
when  the  hardy  Tyrolese  shepherd  has  passed  me, 
mounting  to  difficulty  and  danger  on  the  heights 
above,  and  wearing  in  his  girdle  the  words,  largely 
embroidered  in  white  letters — "  God  is  good." 

And  was  every  one  in  that  mountain  village 
busy  in  the  exchange  of  good- will  offerings,  or 
festive  preparations  ?  Hans  leaned  against  the 
porch  of  his  mother's  house,  the  porch  in  which  at 
eventide,  they  sang  their  hymns  after  the  manner 
of  the  country,  and  with  joined  hands  repeated 
their  evening  prayers.  Often  may  an  aged  couple, 
with  children  and  grandchildren,  be  seen  thus  em- 
ployed in  the  pretty  porches  of  their  houses  while 
the  sun  declines.  Hans  stood  alone;  the  hut  was 
a  little  beyond  the  village,  on  the  ascent  of  the 
mountain ;  he  could  see  all  that  passed  below,  but 


THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL.   161 

he  had  no  presents  to  offer,  for  he  had  no  money 
to  buy  them,  and  no  hands  to  make  them ;  no 
hands,  at  least  capable  of  such  work.  No  one 
thought  of  him ;  if  he  had  been  a  beggar  they 
would  have  remembered  him,  and  given  him  their 
charity  willingly ;  but  as  it  was,  he  was  forgotten. 
Those  who  feel  no  want  themselves  too  seldom 
think  of  the  wants  of  others,  unless  they  are  re- 
minded of  them.  Hans  looked  down  on  the  busy 
village,  and  thought  of  his  mother.  The  Tyrolese 
proverb  which  she  had  quoted, 

"  God  has  his  plan 
For  every  man." 

had  made  a  passing  impression  on  his  mind,  but  he 
sighed,  as  amidst  his  own  loneliness  in  the  general 
bustle  there  seemed  so  little  prospect  of  its  fulfill- 
ment. Still,  however,  though  he  scarce  knew  why, 
the  words,  as  he  uttered  them,  seemed  to  shoot  a 
gleam  of  unwonted  hope  through  his  soul. 

The  evening  of  the  bustling  holiday  at  last 
arrived,  Hans  strolled  about  in  the  gloom ;  all  the 
village  houses  were  lighted  up ;  fear  seemed  to  be 
forgotten,  and  watchfulness  too.  Hans  was  glad 
not  to  be  disturbed  by  the  careless  remarks  of 
the  patrolling  youths,  who,  on  other  evenings  per- 
14* 


162   THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL. 

formed  their  usual  exercise  on  the  green,  but  now 
all  were  within  doors  ;  families  and  friends  had  met, 
and  children  were  merry  and  happy.      Hans  came 
to  the  dwelling  of  a  comfortable  proprietor,  one 
who  in  our  land  would  be   termed  a  rich  farmer. 
The  supper  table  was  prepared ;  in  its  centre  a  fir 
tree  was  planted  in  a  bucket  filled  with  earth ;  little 
tapers  were  fastened  in  its  branches,  and  a  variety 
of  glittering  objects  suspended  around  it,  were  in- 
tended for  presents  to  the  younger  ones  in  the 
family.   Some  of  the  little  children  who  had  already 
secured  theirs,  were  playing  at  a  small  table  in  the 
open  window.      One  of  them  had  got  a  number  of 
soldiers,  and  an  elder  brother,  a  lad  about  the  age 
of  our  poor  Hans,  was  amusing  himself,  apparently, 
by  directing  their  movements,  and  arranging  them 
in  military  order.    Like  all  the  youths  of  the  Tyrol, 
he  aspired  to  be  thought  expert  in  such  matters, 
but  he  was  of  a  more  presuming  and  arrogant  dis- 
position than  many  of  the   others.     Seeing  that 
Hans,  standing  near  the  window,  must  become  one 
of  his  auditors,  he  affected  still  more  the  tone   of 
command,  as  if  to  impress  the  helpless  boy  with   a 
higher  opinion  of  his  military  knowledge.    Almost 
immediately,  however,  the  children,  disputing  for 


THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OE  THE  TYROL.   163 

one  of  the  tin  soldiers,  broke  it  in  two.  The  young 
general  was  in  the  midst  of  a  plan  for  the  defence 
of  their  village  in  case  of  an  attack.  Displeased 
at  the  loss  of  one  of  his  corps,  he  angrily  seized 
the  broken  soldier,  and  threw  it  out  of  the  window. 

"Why  throw  it  away?"  said  the  children. 

"Because  it  is  as  useless  now  as  Hans  himself 
would  be  if  the  enemy  came,"  was  his  answer. 

Hans  heard  the  words,  whether  it  was  intended 
he  should  do  so  or  not.  He  turned  away,  and 
went  home  to  his  mother. 

The  widow  had  shared  her  son's  sentiments  that 
day :  she  was  quite  sensible  that  on  this  day  of 
general  festivity  they  were  overlooked  and  forgot- 
ten. The  mother  and  son  knew  they  had  sympathy 
one  with  the  other,  but  neither  expressed  it.  The 
widow  felt  for  her  son.  The  son  felt  for  his 
mother.  But  Hans  resolved  not  to  grieve  her 
with  the  recital  of  the  fresh  annoyance  he  had 
met  with.  The  widow,  not  sorry  to  end  a  clay 
which  made  their  forlorn  position  more  evident  to 
themselves,  proposed  that  they  should  avoid  'the 
expense  of  light,  by  going  early  to  rest.  Hans 
felt  little  inclined  to  sleep,  but  knowing  his  mother 
would  sit  up  if  he  did  so,  he   complied  with  her 


1G4   THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL. 

request.  He  had  been  early  trained  never  to  close 
his  eyes  in  slumber  without  reverently  bending  the 
knee,  and  asking  the  care  of  a  Divine  protector. 
On  the  present  occasion  he  did  not  omit  that  duty, 
but  breathed  the  wish  with  earnest  fervor  that  the 
Father  of  all  mercies  would,  in  his  good  time,  pre- 
sent him  with  some  opportunity  of  being  useful  to 
others.  Almost  immediately  after  doing  this,  he 
dropped  into  a  deep  slumber,  being  fatigued  with 
his  rambles  during  the  day. 

How  long  his  slumbers  lasted  poor  Hans  never 
knew;  he  only  related  afterwards,  that  he  had 
awoke  as  if  from  a  dream,  but  still  under  a  strong 
impression  that  the  French  and  Bavarian  army  was 
approaching  him.  He  could  not  persuade  himself 
but  that  the  soldiers  were  close  to  him.  He 
thought  he  saw  their  distinct  uniform,  the  gleam 
of  their  arms,  and  even  felt  as  if  their  bayonets 
were  presented  at  him.  He  awoke  in  fear,  but 
even  when  awake  could  scarcely  persuade  himself 
it  was  a  dream.  It  was,  however,  a  natural  one ; 
it  would  be  by  no  means  surprising  if  every  one 
of  the  villagers,  and  himself  also,  had  dreamed 
much  the  same  whenever  they  slept.  Hans  recol- 
lected this,  but  unwilling  to  remain  under  an  ini- 


THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL.       165 

pression  so  unpleasant,  he  rose,  and,  hastily  dress- 
ing himself,  he  went  to  the  door  and  looked  forth. 
The  night  was  calm,  and  even  warm ;  the  moon 
was  beginning  faintly  to  rise;  and  thinking  that 
illness  had  perhaps  caused  his  troubled  dream, 
Hans  walked  out,  believing  the  night  air  would 
relieve  the  headache  from  which  he  had  been  suf- 
fering. He  strolled  up  the  mountain  path  on  the 
side  of  which  their  cottage  stood.  Excitement  and 
agitation  had  indeed  heated  his  blood,  and  the  cool 
air  did  him  good.  That  sense  of  relief  made  him 
continue  his  walk,  and  as  he  went  up  the  mountain 
path,  he  recollected  that  it  led  to  the  signal  pile, 
which  had  been  laid  ready  for  igniting  when  the 
advance  of  the  Bavarian  garrisons  from  their 
winter  posts  should  commence  ;  a  movement  which 
the  combined  Tyrolese  had  determined  to  resist. 
An  impulse  he  felt  little  inclination  even  to  ques- 
tion seemed  still  to  lead  him  on,  and  prompt  him 
to  mount  the  rugged  path  that  conducted  to  that 
important  spot.  Perhaps  it  was  some  feeling  that 
a  surprise  on  this  night  was  not  impossible — some 
scarcely  understood  impression  left  by  his  dream — 
that,  unconsciously  to  himself,  led  Hans  thus  up- 
ward and  upward   on  his  solitary  way,  until  he 


166   THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL. 

came  within  view  of  the  dark  mass  of  firewood 
piled  up  on  the  cliff.  "Whatever  was  the  feeling 
that  influenced  him,  however,  (and  the  result,  the 
reader  will  remember,  is  a  matter  of  history,  not 
mere  fiction,)  the  boy  found  himself,  as  we  have 
said,  at  the  signal  post. 

Hans  walked  round  the  pile,  as  it  lay  there 
quiet  and  lonely.  But  the  watchers,  where  were 
they  ?  Forgetful,  perhaps,  of  their  duty,  they  had 
amidst  the  festivities  of  Easter  omitted  their  im- 
portant office  on  this  occasion ;  at  all  events  they 
were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  village,  far  beneath, 
was  in  as  great  security  as  if  no  dreadful  war- 
signal  was  likely  to  be  needed,  and  all  in  the 
neighborhood  was  calm.  A  dark  old  pine  tree 
stood  near  it ;  in  its  hollow  stem  the  tinder  was  laid 
ready,  with  the  other  means  for  raising  a  speedy 
conflagration.  Hans  paused  in  his  circuit  by  the 
hollow  tree,  and  seemed  to  listen  to  the  silence. 
There  is  something  in  the  feeling  of  utter  silence 
that  impels  the  ear  to  listen  for  its  interruption. 
As  he  so  listened,  a  singular  sound,  that  seemed  to 
be  reverberated  along  the  ground,  caught  his 
eager  attention.  It  was  slow  and  quiet,  but  so 
measured  and  equal,  as  to  be  distinct.     He  listened 


THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL.       167 

with  painful  intensity  for  about  a  minute ;  it  stop- 
ped. Hans  was  just  about  to  leave  the  spot,  when 
another  sound  was  heard ;  it  was  the  click  of  mus- 
kets ;  then  a  distinct  but  stealthy  tread ;  then  a 
pale  ray  of  moonshine  glanced  on  the  fixed  bayo- 
nets of  two  soldiers,  who  cautiously  crept  along 
the  edge  of  the  cliff  at  the  opposite  side  of  tho 
pile.  They  mounted  the  eminence,  looked  round, 
and  seeing  no  one  there — for  poor  Hans  was  hid- 
den by  the  old  tree — gave  the  signal  apparently  to 
some  comrades  in  the  distance.  Then  the  measured 
tread  of  marching  men  was  heard  again,  but  Hans 
did  not  wait  to  listen  to  it.  Like  a  flash  of  inspi- 
ration, the  whole  circumstance  was  visible  to  his 
mind,  The  secret  had  been  discovered  by,  or 
treacherously  revealed  to,  the  enemy ;  a  party  had 
been  sent  forward  from  the  enemy's  troops  to 
destroy  it ;  the  body  from  which  they  were  de- 
tached was  then  marching  up  the  pass  that  led  to 
his  village ;  the  fears  he  had  heard  the  old  and 
timid  express  would  be  realized ;  and  the  plans  of 
the  others,  which  he  had  heard  so  much  talked  of, 
would  be  of  no  avail !  It  is  singular,  that  though 
naturally,  as  most  infirm  persons  are,  of  a  timid 
disposition,  no  thought  of  his  own  perilous  situa- 


168      THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL. 

tion  occurred  to  Hans.  All  that  has  here  taken 
some  time  to  state  on  paper,  flashed  on  his  mind 
with  the  rapidity  of  a  vision,  and  perhaps  it  was 
followed  by  one  equally  rapid  self-recollection. 

"God  has  Ms  plan 
For  every  man," 

might  the  youth  have  mentally  said,  as  quick  as 
thought  he  seized  the  tinder,  struck  the  light,  and 
flung  the  flaring  turpentine  brand  into  the  pile. 

The  two  scouts,  who  had  advanced  first,  had  then 
their  backs  turned  to  it,  waiting  the  arrival  of 
some  comrades,  whose  arms  just  glittered  above 
the  edge  of  the  cliff  at  the  moment  when  the  sud- 
den blaze  towered  up,  and  flashed  upon  them.  A 
cry  of  astonishment,  we  might  say  of  fear,  burst 
from  the  foremost ;  but  in  the  light  of  that  mount- 
ing blaze  they  soon  perceived  no  ambushed  foes 
were  there ;  a  single  youth  was  seen  hastily  re- 
treating down  the  mountain  path.  They  fired — 
cruelly  fired.  A  shriek  of  agony  told  them  one 
bullet,  at  least,  though  fired  at  random,  had  found 
its  mark.  The  light  was  too  indistinct  for  an  aim, 
but  a  bullet  had  lodged  in  the  boy's  shoulder.  Yet 
the  signal  fire  was  blazing  high,  and  the  whole 
country  would  be  shortly  aroused.  Already,  before 


THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OP  THE  TYROL.        169 

tlieir  surprise  was  over,  or  their  retreat  effected, 
the  signal  was  answered  from  a  second  mountain 
top,  and  another  and  another  began  to  repeat  it. 
The  advancing  party,  seeing  their  plan  for  a  sur- 
prise thus  rendered  abortive,  made  a  hasty  escape. 

Hans,  meantime,  was  not  killed ;  faint  and 
bleeding,  he  contrived  to  reach  the  village,  where 
already  the  greatest  consternation  prevailed.  Trem- 
bling old  people  stood  at  the  door  demanding  in- 
telligence, and  the  peasantry,  with  their  arms, 
were  mustering  thick  and  fast.  At  the  door  of  the 
proprietor's  house,  where  Hans  had  stood  to  wit- 
ness the  Easter  party  on  the  previous  evening,  an 
anxious  group  was  gathered  ;  among  them  was  the 
lad  who  had  made  so  good  and  brave  a  general  of 
the  tin  soldiers,  and  who  had  so  unfeelingly,  we 
would  hope  thoughtlessly,  declared  the  broken  one 
to  be  as  useless  as  Hans  in  the  defence  he  was 
planning  of  the  village.  He  was  now  aroused,  from 
sleep  with  the  cry  that  the  enemy  was  come.  Pale, 
confused,  uncertain  what  to  do,  he  was  anxiously 
joining  in  the  inquiry  which  no  one  could  answer — 
"Who  lighted  the  pile?" 

"It  was  I!"  said,  at  last,  a  faint,  almost  ex- 
piring voice. 

15 


170   THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL. 

They  turned,  and  saw  the  crippled  Hans  totter- 
ing towards  them. 

"Thou?"  exclaimed  many  voices  ;  but  the  pro- 
prietor's son  gazed  in  stupified  silence. 

"  The  enemy — the  French — were  there,"  Hans 
faltered,  and  sank  upon  the  ground.  "  Take  me  to 
my  mother.     At  last  I  have  not  been  useless." 

They  stooped  to  lift  him ;  but  drew  back,  for 
their  hands  were  full  of  blood. 

"  What  is  this  ?"  they  cried.  "  He  has  been 
shot !  It  is  true  !   Hans  the  cripple  has  saved  us." 

They  carried  Hans  to  his  mother's  house.  Some 
ran  before  him  and  told  her  the  alarming  news  ;  of 
the  danger  that  had  approached  them,  and  who 
had  been,  for  that  time  at  least,  their  preserver. 
Then  they  carried  the  wounded  youth  in,  and  laid 
him  before  her.  As  the  mother  bowed  in  anguish 
over  his  pale  face,  Hans  opened  his  eyes — for  he 
had  fainted  from  loss  of  blood  and  pain — and 
looking  at  her,  he  made  an  effort  to  speak.  "It 
is  not  now,  dear  mother,  you  should  weep  for  me ; 
I  am  happy  now.     Yes,  mother,  it  is  true — 

"God  has  his  plan 
For  every  man." 


THE  CRIPPLED  ORPHAN  OF  THE  TYROL.      171 

You  see  He  had  it  for  me,  though  we  did  not  know 
what  it  was." 

Hans  did  not  recover  of  his  wound ;  but  he  was 
permitted  to  live  long  enough  to  know  he  had  been 
of  use :  he  lived  to  hear  of  the  result  of  his  timely 
warning,  not  to  his  village  only,  but  to  the  country 
around ;  he  lived  to  see  grateful  mothers  embrace 
his  mother :  to  hear  that  she  should  find  a  son  in 
every  brave  youth  in  the  village,  a.  home  for  her 
age  in  every  house ;  that  she  should  be  considered 
a  sacred  and  honored  bequest  to  the  community 
which  her  son  had  preserved  at  the  cost  of  his  life. 

Our  little  story  is  told.  It  is  not  from  scenes 
of  battle  and  strife  that  we  would  willingly  draw 
illustrations  of  great  truths  and  principles ;  and 
great  emergencies,  like  those  which  met  Hans,  it 
would  be  unreasonable  to  expect  as  usual  occur- 
rences.    To  all,  however,  the  motto  speaks — 

"  God  has  his  plan 
For  every  man." 

None  need  stand  useless  in  the  great  social  system. 
There  is  work  for  every  one  to  do,  if  he  will  but 
look  for  it.  So  long  as  there  is  ignorance  to  instruct, 
want  to  relieve,  sorrow  to  soothe,  let  none  stand  as 
listless  gazers  in  the  great  vineyard  of  the  world. 


A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY. 

In  the  course  of  my  reading  I  have  met  with  a 
great  many  accounts  of  persons  who  have  shown 
remarkable  proficiency  in  the  arts  and  sciences  and 
literary  composition  at  a  very  early  age.  Paschal, 
Anna  Maria  Schurman,  and  the  admirable  Crich- 
ton  excited  my  astonishment  considerably ;  but  a 
very  recent  instance,  has  occurred  of  literary  pre- 
cocity, which  appears  to  me  to  leave  all  former 
examples  far  behind.  I  transcribe  the  account  of 
this  remarkable  person  from  an  English  periodical 
of  the  last  year. 

"  The  bright  Star  of  the  North" — such  was  the 
name  given  by  Jean  Paul  to  one  of  the  most  bril- 
liant of  early  developed  geniuses  that  ever  rose 
above  the  literary  horizon,  dazzling  for  a  while  the 
astounded  beholder,  but  then  disappearing  from  his 
sight,  like  a  meteor  suddenly  extinguished  by  the 
too  rapid  exhaustion  of  its  own  inflaraable  mate- 
rials. Elizabeth  Kulmann  was  born  at  St.  Peters- 
(172) 


A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY.  173 

burg,  July  5th,  1808,  "  in  the  humble  cottage  of 
want,"  as  she  herself  expresses  it,  in  one  of  her 
poems.  Her  father,  an  officer  in  the  Russian  army, 
died  in  her  earliest  infancy,  leaving  the  tender 
exotic  plant  to  be  brought  up  by  her  mother,  amid 
the  cares  and  deprivations  of  extreme  poverty.  An 
elder  sister  was  married,  and  her  seven  brothers 
were  already  provided  for  in  the  army,  or  military 
schools,  so  that  Elizabeth  was  the  object  of  her 
mother's  undivided  attention.  Of  her  brothers, 
nearly  all  perished  in  the  wars  with  France.  Mrs. 
Kulmann  was  a  woman  of  superior  mind  and  great 
attainments,  and  was  well  fitted,  in  many  respects, 
to  guide  the  early  developed  genius  of  her  gifted 
child.  She  was  a  native  of  Germany,  but  spoke 
the  language  of  her  adopted  country  with  the  cor- 
rectness of  a  native,  and,  from  the  birth  of  her 
daughter,  carefully  instructed  her  in  the  languages 
of  both  countries. 

Elizabeth's  wonderful  talent  for  language,  ex- 
traordinary powers  of  observation  and  retentive 
memory,  began  to  manifest  themselves  before  she 
had  completed  her  second  year.  She  knew,  in 
German  and  Russian,  the  names  of  every  object 
that  came  within  her  sphere  of  observation,  was  an 
15* 


174  A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY. 

incessant  talker,  and  found  in  her  mother  a  patient 
listener,  and  an  unwearied  answerer,  to  all  her  in- 
numerable questions.  As  her  ideas  expanded  she, 
endowed,  as  it  were,  all  inanimate  objects  in  her 
little  world  with  a  soul ;  would  sit  for  hours  together, 
asking  different  objects  respecting  their  nature, 
qualities,  destination,  and  relation  to  mankind ;  and 
then,  personifying  the  object,  give  a  ready  reply  to 
all  her  own  questions.  Let  us  imagine  her  at  the 
age  of  five  years,  sitting  on  the  step  of  their  cot- 
tage door,  watching  a  blade  of  grass  growing  in 
the  little  gutter  formed  by  the  dropping  of  the  rain, 
from  the  eves  of  the  house. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  Whence  do  you  come  ?"  asked 
the  child.  After  a  short  pause,  as  if  waiting  for 
an  answer,  she  replied :  "  I  am  a  child  of  the  earth ; 
our  house  is  silent  and  dark.  We  see  no  sun,  we 
see  no  bird.  From  the  roof  comes  the  water,  drop, 
drop,  drop.  That  is  our  nourishment — a  mother's 
milk.  When  we  leave  our  cradle,  our  mother  says, 
'  Rush  your  way  through  the  covering,  then  you 
will  see  the  sun  and  hear  the  birds.  The  butterflies 
will  greet  you  and  admire  your  green  dress,  and 
near  by,  you  will  see  the  violet,  the  lily  of  the 
valley,  and  the  rose !"     We  see  here  already  the 


A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY.  175 

germ  of  that  wonderful  facility  of  invention  which 
afterwards  found  vent  in  verse,  and  which  enabled 
her  to  complete  a  long  poem,  full  of  luxuriant  images 
and  beautiful  thoughts,  before  another  would  have 
completed  the  arrangement  of  the  subject. 

Elizabeth  gave  early  manfestations  of  that  ex- 
treme sensibility  to  the  pain  of  others,  and  that 
sweetness  and  gentleness  of  disposition,  which  was 
no  less  characteristic  of  her  than  her  intellectual 
endowments.  For  a  long  time  she  could  not  suffer 
the  presence  of  an  otherwise  esteemed  friend,  when 
she  heard  that  he  was  fond  of  shooting.  "  Are  not 
the  birds  God's  creatures,"  said,  she,  "as  well  as 
we  are?  Why  shoot  them,  then?"  One  day  she 
called  her  mother's  attention  to  a  spider  in  its  web. 
"Look,  mother,"  cried  she,  "how  the  spider  is 
watching  over  these  flies,  that  are  sleeping  near 
him.  I  saw  him  invite  the  fly,  and  then  he  came 
down  stairs  to  conduct  his  guests  into  the  room, 
and  now  see  how  he  watches  him,  that  he  may  not 
be  disturbed  in  his  sleep  !"  Beautiful  illusion  of  an 
unsophisticated  mind !  She  attained  her  fifth  year 
without  ever  having  seen  a  book,  for  her  mother, 
knowing  her  incessant  thirst  for  knowledge,  had 
prudently  removed  from  her  sight  the  few  she  her- 


176  A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY. 

self  possessed ;  at  last  a  friend  presented  her  -with 
a  work  on  natural  history,  with  plates.  This  opened 
a  new  world  to  her  inquisitive  mind,  with  such  eager- 
ness did  she  apply  herself  to  its  contents,  that, 
with  the  assistance  of  her  friend  and  of  her  mother, 
she  soon  learnt  the  German,  French,  English, 
Italian,  and  even  Latin  names  of  the  objects  repre- 
sented. Portions  of  the  text  were  read  to  her,  and 
immediately  she  asked  to  be  taught  to  read.  A 
spelling  book  was  given  her,  but  she  threw  it  aside 
the  next  day,  after  having  learnt  the  words  of  one 
syllable,  and  applied  herself  to  the  German  text  of 
her  book,  which  in  a  few  weeks  she  read  with  ease. 
The  following  anecdote  will  afford  a  key  to  the 
correctness  of  the  accent  with  which  she  afterwards 
spoke  so  many  languages.  She  had  often  lis- 
tened to  the  conversation  of  an  Englishman,  a 
Frenchman,  and  an  Italian,  who  occasionally  visited 
her  mother,  the  former  being  the  owner  of  their 
cottage,  and  an  intimate  friend.  She  had  paid  much 
attention  to  the  rising  and  falling  of  the  voice,  in 
their  respective  languages,  and  could  imitate  it 
with  singular  exactness.  In  a  playful  mood,  she 
took  it  into  her  head  one  day  to  imitate  these  lan- 
guages, to  an  old  man  who  daily  supplied  them  with 


A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY.  177 

bread,  and  with  whom  she  was  a  great  favorite. 
She  repeated  to  him  names  of  animals  in  Russian, 
German,  and  English.  "  Can  you  speak  English?" 
cried  the  old  man,  astonished.  Instead  of  answer- 
ing, she  spoke  with  great  volubility,  and  without 
hesitation,  a  number  of  English  words,  at  the  same 
time  raising  and  dropping  her  voice  as  if  really  con- 
versing. She  then  did  the  same  with  French  and 
Italian.  The  old  man  related  the  wonder  to  his 
master,  who  henceforth  ordered  him  to  leave  his 
bread  at  the  house,  even  if  they  had  no  money  to 
pay  for  it.  Often,  alas  !  did  this  kindness  of  the 
worthy  baker  save  mother  and  daughter  from  going 
to  bed  supperless. 

So  acute  were  Elizabeth's  powers  of  observation, 
that  she  could  recall  the  most  trival  circumstance 
years  after  it  happened.  She  was  only  two  years 
and  a  half  old  when  she  accompanied  her  mother 
one  day  to  the  house  of  the  landlord,  the  above 
mentioned  Englishman.  The  child  was  busily  oc- 
cupied with  her  doll,  when  the  landlord  folded  up  a 
paper,  about  which  he  had  been  talking  to  her  mo- 
ther, and  going  to  a  closet  in  an  adjoining  room, 
unlocked  it  and  laid  the  paper  in  a  drawer.  Three 
years  afterwards  he  was  regretting  to  Mrs.  Kulmann 


178  A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY. 

the  loss  of  the  document,  which  he  had  some  indis- 
tinct recollection  of  having  once  shown  her  at  his 
house.  Elizabeth  recalled  to  his  memory,  not  only 
the  day  when  it  happened,  but  also  the  minutest 
circumstances,  and  described  exactly  where  he  had 
laid  the  paper.  He  ran  home,  and  soon  returned 
with  a  large  cactus,  which  Elizabeth  had  often  ad- 
mired, exclaiming,  "  Admirable  child !  you  are  my 
memory.  If  I  were  emperor,  you  should  be  my 
secretary  of  state." 

Elizabeth  had  hitherto  received  all  her  instruc- 
tion from  her  mother  ;  she  now  found  one  teacher 
worthy  of  such  a  pupil,  in  the  friend  who  had  pre- 
sented her  with  the  book  on  natural  history.  He 
was  a  German,  and  possessed  great  classical  attain- 
ments, and  was  familiar  with  many  modern  lan- 
guages. A  tutor  by  profession,  and  engaged  during 
the  day,  in  the  wearying  and  arduous  duties  of  his 
calling,  he  devoted  his  holidays  and  leisure  hours 
to  the  instruction  of  Elizabeth  !  Under  his  guidance 
she  learned  writing,  history,  and  geography,  and 
before  the  completion  of  her  seventh  year,  the  forms 
of  countries,  the  courses  of  rivers,  the  situations  of 
towns,  and  the  principal  historical  events,  were 
firmly  fixed  in  her  mind,  never  afterwards  to  be  for- 


A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY.  179 

gotten.  She  soon  became  acquainted  with  French, 
having  learned  to  speak  it  fluently  in  three  months, 
being  well  versed  in  German,  from  the  instruction 
of  her  mother,  she  learnt  many  little  poems  in  that 
language  by  heart,  but  had  as  yet  no  clear  idea  of 
rhythm.  She  had  often  questioned  her  instructor 
on  this  point,  but  he,  as  if  fearing  the  too  early  de- 
velopement  of  these  extraordinary  poetical  powers 
with  which  he  saw  she  was  endowed,  carefully 
avoided  all  allusion  to  the  subject,  and  evaded  even 
her  direct  questions.  This  silence  on  a  point  with 
which  she  was  sure  he  was  acquainted,  excited  her 
curiosity,  and  she  meditated  for  herself.  She  re- 
marked the  rhymes,  counted  the  syllables,  and  re- 
solved on  making  the  attempt  to  do  something. 
The  result  was  a  poem,  that  put  an  end  to  the 
silence  of  her  friend,  who  then  initiated  her  into 
the  mysteries  of  versification.  From  this  time  she 
almost  seemed  to  live  but  for  two  things — to  acquire 
knowledge,  and  then  to  give  it  new  forms  in  her 
own  poetical  compositions.  The  Italian  language 
was  soon  added  to  her  other  acquirements.  Scarcely 
had  she  taken  three  lessons  when  she  exclaimed 
with  rapture,  that  she  should  study  no  tongue  with 
such  zeal  and  pleasure.     So  well  did  she  keep  her 


180  A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY. 

word,  that  in  a  few  months  she  wrote  it  with  ele- 
gance, and  indeed  she  never  required  more  than 
three  months  to  learn  a  living;  tongue.* 

It  was  on  her  tenth  birthday  that  her  instruc- 
tor came  to  dine  with  them,  bringing  with  him  a 
large  piece  of  Elizabeth's  favorite  gingerbread. 
When  dinner  was  over,  it  was  presented  to  her, 
and  she  was  told  to  break  it  in  two.  She  did  so, 
when  lo !  a  little  book  was  concealed  within  it. 
She  glanced  at  the  first  page.  "  Tasso !  Oh,  I 
have  Tasso  !"  cried  the  child,  weeping  with  joy, 
and  dancing  about  the  room  ;  "  Tasso,  dear  Tasso, 
I  will  learn  you  by  heart."  She  then  counted  the 
stanzas,  and  reckoned  how  long  it  would  take  her 
to  learn  the  whole,  allowing  three  stanzas  for  each 
day.  But  on  the  third  day,  she  exceeded  the 
limits  she  had  allowed  herself,  and  in  a  short  time 
never  learnt  less  than  nine  verses  a  day.  She  had 
hitherto  spoken  Russian  with  their  landlord.  How 
surprised  was  he  one  day,  by  being  addressed  by 
her  in  excellent  English.  She  had  studied  it  only 
for  a  month  or  two,  and  from  that  day  never  spoke 

*  Lest  the  rapidity  of  acquiring  languages  should  appear 
incredible,  it  may  be  well  to  remind  the  reader  that  Russians 
in  general  have  a  peculiar  facility  in  this  department  of  know- 
ledge. 


A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY.  181 

any  thing  to  him  but  his  own  tongue.  Some  En- 
glish strangers  presented  her  with  Milton's  works, 
which  soon  became  her  favorite  reading  in  that 
language. 

A  change  now  took  place  in  the  domestic  ar- 
rangements of  the  Kulmann's,  beneficial  for  both 
mother  and  daughter.  Two  dear  friends,  who  had 
rendered  the  former  constant  pecuniary  assistance, 
were  dead,  and  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty 
that  they  could  procure  oil  and  wood — important 
articles  of  winter  consumption  in  a  Russian,  house- 
hold. Their  landlord,  who  loved  Elizabeth  as  his 
own  child,  reduced  their  rent  to  an  almost  nominal 
amount,  but  it  was  still  more  than  they  could  dis- 
charge. Through  the  medium  of  an  old  friend  of 
the  family,  named  Meder,  who  had  been  appointed 
to  an  official  situation  in  St.  Petersburg,  they 
made  the  acquaintance  of  an  aged  priest,  named 
Abram  Abramow,  who  had  lost  his  wife,  and  lately 
also  his  only  daughter.  On  hearing  of  Elizabeth's 
talent  and  her  mother's  poverty,  the  old  man  im- 
mediately offered  them  an  asylum  in  his  house, 
which  was  now  too  large  for  himself.  The  above- 
mentioned  friend  had  two  daughters,  and  as  he 
possessed  great  scientific  knowledge,  he  devoted 
16 


182  A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY. 

himself  to  their  education,  Elizabeth  being  allowed 
to  join  them  in  their  lessons.  She  thus  learnt 
botany,  mineralogy,  natural  philosophy,  and  ma- 
thematics, with  music  and  drawing.  Elizabeth  had 
often  heard  her  two  new  benefactors  speaking 
Latin  together,  and  to  hear  a  language  with  which 
she  was  unacquainted  was  but  to  excite  in  her 
mind  a  longing  desire  to  gain  a  knowledge  of  it. 
She  wished  to  show  her  gratitude  to  Abramow  by 
learning  Latin,  and  congratulating  him  in  that 
tongue  on  his  next  birth-day.  "  Is  Latin  difficult  ?" 
asked  she  of  her  tutor,  who  still  continued  his 
occasional  instructions.  ''For  you  no  language  is 
difficult,"  was  the  reply;  "in  six  months  you  will 
know  it  as  well  as  you  do  your  other  languages." 
"  Will  you  teach  me  ?"  "  Willingly.  To-morrow 
I  will  send  you  a  grammar,  which  you  will  learn 
by  heart  at  your  leisure."  She  had  formed  an 
idea  that  Latin  was  difficult,  and  therefore  resolved 
to  be  doubly  diligent.  Such,  accordingly,  was  her 
extraordinary  perseverance  and  capacity  that  in 
less  than  three  months  she  had  completely  mas- 
tered the  difficulties  of  Cornelius  Nepos,  Cassar, 
and  Cicero  !  She  then  turned  her  attention  to 
Greek.     She  had  listened  attentively  one  evening 


A  KUSSIAN  PKODIGY.  183 

to  a  conversation  on  the  advantages  to  be  derived 
from  the  study  of  the  dead  languages.  Her  enthu 
siastic  and  profound  attention  had  not  escaped  the 
watchful  eye  of  her  friend  and  instructor.  He 
was  fully  prepared  for  what  followed  on  his  next 
visit.  She  was  abstracted,  and  unusually  quiet 
during  her  lessons,  and  he  at  once  perceived  that 
she  was  absorbed  by  some  new  plan  that  she  had 
conceived,  and  immediately  guessed  what  that  pro- 
ject was.  "  How  warmly  we  disputed  the  other 
night  on  Homer  and  the  ancients,"  said  he,  with  a 
scrutinizing  glance  at  his  pupil.  "Oh  yes,"  cried 
she,  her  eye  lighting  up  with  enthusiasm,  "  and  I 
feel  you  were  quite  right."  "  Shall  we  learn 
Greek?"  Elizabeth  smiled.  "You  will  not  be 
the  only  female  who  has  known  Greek ;  Madame 
Dacier  has  even  translated  Homer."  Elizabeth 
seized  her  tutor's  hand  with  joy.  In  six  months 
Homer  was  her  favorite  author. 

She  had  casually  heard  of  the  celebrated  Italian 
linguist,  Mezzofanti,*  afterwards  cardinal,  who  at 
that  time  was  acquainted  with  thirty-six  languages. 

*  Mezzofanti  died  March  16th,  1849,  in  the  seventy-fifth 
year  of  his  age.  He  is  said  to  have  known  more  or  less  of 
fifty-six  languages. 


184  A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY, 

She  resolved  to  tread  in  his  footsteps,  in  so  far  as 
to  become  acquainted  with  every  language  that 
could  store  her  mind  with  new  ideas,  thus  differing 
from  her  proposed  model,  with  whom  the  learning 
of  languages  was  a  mere  passion.  Before  she  had 
completed  her  sixteenth  year,  she  learnt  modern 
Greek,  Spanish,  Portuguese,  and  Sclavonian, 
making  in  all  eleven  tongues,  eight  of  which  she 
spoke  fluently.  She  was  preparing  to  study  Per- 
sian and  Arabian,  when  her  first  illness  interrupted 
her  studies.  In  three  of  the  above  languages, 
Russian,  German,  and  Italian,  she  wrote  with  a 
purity  of  diction  which  no  native  could  excel ;  and 
most  of  the  poems  she  composed  in  either  of  these 
tongues,  were  immediately  translated  by  her  into 
the  other  two.  Her  future  destination  had  often 
been  a  subject  of  anxiety  to  her  mother,  who  saw 
the  necessity  of  her  gaming  her  own  living.  Her 
instructor,  convinced  of  her  high  poetical  powers, 
but  wishing  to  have  the  opinion  of  one  whose  judg- 
ment none  could  dispute,  wrote  to  a  friend  of  his 
in  Germany,  inclosing  some  of  her  poems  in  Ger- 
man, Italian,  and  French,  and  requested  him  to 
obtain  Goethe's  opinion  of  them.  We  give  an 
extract  from  the  answer  : — "  On  my  reading  '  The 


A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY.  185 

Stream,'  Goethe  listened  with  attention,  and  when 
I  had  finished,  exclaimed,  '  Boldly  imagined  and 
boldly  executed !  He  then  read  himself,  and  on 
reading  '  The  Lightn'ing,'  exclaimed  repeatedly, 
'  Excellent,  excellent !  Tell  the  young  poetess  in 
my  name,  in  Goethe's  name,  that  I  prophesy  her 
a  high  rank  in  literature,  in  whichever  of  the  lan- 
guages known  to  her  she  may  choose  to  write.' " 

Elizabeth  was  endowed  with  other  qualities 
which  would  have  been  sufficient  to  raise  her  to 
eminence.  She  possessed  a  beautiful  voice,  which 
had  been  highly  cultivated  by  the  old  priest,  and 
whenever  a  foreigner  happened  to  come  to  their 
house,  she  had  always  his  national  songs  ready, 
which  she  sang  with  such  taste,  spirit,  and  feeling, 
that  her  hearers  were  filled  with  astonishment  and 
admiration.  To  an  Italian,  on  one  occasion,  she 
repeated  some  verses  of  Metastasio  and  Tasso. 
"  What  a  marvel !"  he  exclaimed.  You  have  figure, 
action,  feeling,  expression,  and  a  voice  such  as  I 
have  never  heard  before,  though  I  have  travelled 
over  the  whole  of  Europe.'' 

Of  the  self-denial  she  was  capable  of,  when  the 
pleasure  of  others  was  concerned,  the  following 
anecdote  gives  pleasing  evidence.  She  was  invited 
16* 


186  A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY. 

by  some  friends  to  attend  the  performance  of  some 
music  of  a  very  high  order,  of  which  she  was  pas- 
sionately fond.  For  several  days  she  was  greatly 
elated  in  anticipation  of  the  coming  treat.  On  the 
very  evening,  however,  when  she  was  to  have 
enjoyed  it,  her  tutor,  whom  she  now  seldom  saw, 
and  who  happened  to  be  at  liberty,  called  to  spend 
the  evening  with  her.  She  immediately  dispatched 
a  note  of  excuse  to  her  friends,  and  all  their  endea- 
vors to  induce  her  to  go  were  in  vain.  It  was  not 
till  some  days  afterwards  that  her  instructor  heard 
of  what  pleasure  he  had  been  the  unconscious 
means  of  depriving  her.  "  It  would  have  been  un- 
grateful of  me,"  said  she,  "to  have  left  the  com- 
pany of  even  a  less  benefactor,  but  what  name  would 
my  conduct  have  deserved  if  I  had  quitted  you,  my 
greatest  benefactor  on  earth  ?  Even  if  I  had  been 
sure  that  I  would  never  have  had  an  opportunity 
of  hearing  the  music,  I  would  not,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, have  gone." 

With  all  her  talents  and  acquirements  she  was 
modest  and  retiring  in  company,  and  seldom  ven- 
tured to  offer  her  opinion  unless  it  was  asked  for. 
But  when  it  was  solicited,  she  was  no  longer  the 
timid  listener,  but  the  leader  of  the  conversation ; 


A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY.  187 

while  on  disputable  points,  the  most  learned  found 
in  her  an  antagonist  who  gained  their  love  and 
esteem,  as  much  as  she  excited  their  wonder  and 
astonishment.  Nor  was  she  less  remarkable  for 
the  love  of  order  she  manifested  in  every  action  of 
daily  life.  Never  was  a  book  lent  to  her  known  to 
have  a  stain  upon  it  when  returned ;  hence  all  her 
friends  willingly  intrusted  her  with  all  the  books 
she  required.  "  In  one  thing,"  said  she,  jestingly, 
"  I  am  superior  even  to  Franklin — the  order  in 
which  I  keep  all  that  belongs  to  me,  for  Franklin 
complains  that  he  could  not  keep  his  papers  in  such 
order  as  he  would  have  wished." 

She  was  extremely  neat  in  her  person,  and  was 
never  seen  in  a  untidy  or  dirty  dress,  even  during 
the  period  of  her  greatest  poverty.  On  the  occasion 
of  some  festival,  the  prettiness  and  even  elegance 
of  her  attire  attracted  general '  attention.  "  It  is 
only  calico,"  said  she,  laughing,  "  and,  like  many 
of  the  boldest  pictures  and  expressions  of  the  poets, 
looks  well  at  a  distance ;  but  you  must  not  examine 
their  texture.  For  instance,  Milton's  '  darkness 
visible'  is  a  picture  which  astonishes  the  boldest 
imagination ;  but  if  you  look  at  it  closer,  (pardon 
me,  beloved  Milton,  if  I  speak  the  truth,  in  spite  of 


188  A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY. 

my  veneration,)  you  find  it  nothing  but  nonsense." 
Up  to  her  sixteenth  year,  her  constitution,  though 
delicate,  had  been  such  as  to  give  hopes  of  a  much 
longer  life  than  she  was  destined  to  enjoy.  At  her 
birth  the  nurse  said  she  would  be  a  talented  child, 
but  would  not  live  long.  This  prophecy,  the  latter 
part  of  which  it  required  no  great  skill  to  make, 
had  been  carefully  concealed  by  her  mother,  till  it 
was  accidently  revealed  to  her  by  a  well-meaning 
but  foolish  gossip  of  their  acquaintance.  An  ex- 
pression of  unpleasantness  was  painted  on  the  coun- 
tenance of  all  present  (for  the  Russians  are  some- 
what superstitious,)  and  the  ominous  words,  which 
Elizabeth  saw  at  a  glance  had  been  purposely  kept 
back  from  her,  made  a  lasting  impression  on  her 
mind.  Her  tutor,  however,  with  the  help  of  pro- 
phecies which  had  failed  in  their  fulfilment,  suc- 
ceeded in  calming  her,  and  she  regained  her  wonted 
cheerfulness. 

In  1824,  St,  Petersburg  was  visited  by  an  inun- 
dation, terrible  in  its  effects  for  the  Kulmanns,  and 
the  inhabitants  in  general.  A  few  days  previously, 
her  eldest  brother  had  married,  and  Elizabeth,  being 
obliged  to  wait  for  the  carriage,  during  stormy 
weather,  had  caught  cold.   Her  brother  invited  her 


A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY.  189 

to  spend  some  days  with  them,  to  which  she  unwil- 
lingly consented,  as  she  felt  unwell.  It  was  during 
her  residence  here  that  the  inundation  happened. 
She  was  separated  from  her  mother,  and  uncertain 
as  to  her  fate.  Her  brother's  house  was  filled  with 
the  weeping  and  wailing  families  who  dwelt  on  the 
ground  floors  of  the  neighboring  houses,  which  were 
filled  with  water.  Amidst  the  general  distress  and 
confusion,  Elizabeth  was  seen  on  her  knees  in  a 
corner,  fervently  praying  to  God  for  the  safety  of 
her  mother  and  all  the  afflicted. 

The  waters  at  length  subsided,  but  Elizabeth's 
health  was  permanently  injured  by  the  unpropitious 
character  of  the  season.  Her  tutor  took  the  first  op- 
portunity to  inquire  after  her.  One  glance  revealed 
to  him  the  change  that  had  come  over  her ;  and 
he  turned  pale  when  she  greeted  him  with  the  me- 
lancholy words,  "  The  prophecy  of  the  nurse  is  ful- 
filled." We  need  hardly  add,  however,  that  there 
was  no  connection  between  the  two  events  of  the 
nurse's  prediction  and  her  untimely  end.  As  a 
delicate  child  she  was  exposed  to  special  risks. 

As  we  are  now  arrived  almost  at  the  close  of  her 
poetical  career,  we  will  pause  to  take  a  glance  at 
the  literary  works  she  left   behind   her.     1.  The 


190  A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY. 

Gallery  of  Pictures  in  Sixty  Saloons.  This  is  a 
collection  of  short  poems  on  all  subjects.  2.  Trans- 
lations of  Anacreon  in  eight  languages.  3.  Trans- 
lation of  Oserow's  tragedies.  4.  Translations  of 
two  of  Alfieri's  tragedies  in  German,  and  of  his 
"Saul"  in  Russian.  5.  "Poetical  Attempts"  in 
German,  Russian,  and  Italian.  6.  Translations  of 
Mate's  Fables,  from  the  Spanish ;  fragments  of 
Cameon's  Lusiacle  and  thirty  odes  of  Manoel ;  frag- 
ments of  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  and  Paradise  Re- 
gained ;  several  poems  of  Metastasio ;  all  into 
German.  7.  Tales,  Russian,  oriental,  and  foreign  ; 
all  written  in  Russian,  with  the  exception  of  two  in 
German.  8.  The  national  songs  of  modern  Greece. 
This  was  her  last  work. 

To  give  an  idea  of  the  extent  of  the  above  works, 
we  will  only  remark,  that  the  edition  of  them  now 
before  us,  containing  only  her  original  poems  in 
German,  is  a  large  octavo  volume  of  six  hundred 
and  seventy  pages,  each  with  double  columns.  They 
were  first  published  in  Germany  in  1846,  and  have 
already  reached  the  sixth  edition. 

It  will  naturally  be  asked,  How  is  it  possible  that 
one  so  young  could  write  works,  which,  if  written 
by  a  man  who  had  attained  the  age  of  half  a  cen- 


A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY.  191 

tury,  would  entitle  him  to  be  called  a  productive 
genius  ?  A  glance  at  her  daily  life  will  explain 
much  of  the  mystery,  and  show  how  far  natural 
genius  was  assisted  by  an  almost  supernatural 
industry  and  perseverance. 

Since  her  eleventh  year,  Elizabeth  never  slept 
more  than  six  hours.  On  rising  in  the  morning, 
her  first  thought  was  her  prayers,  which  she  re- 
peated with  every  mark  of  an  inward,  fervent 
devotion.  Her  toilet  never  occupied  more  than  six 
or  seven  minutes,  though,  as  we  have  said,  she  was 
always  neat  and  clean.  Breakfast,  also,  was  the 
occupation  of  a  few  minutes  only,  and  "  even  this 
time  I  sometimes  gain,"  said  she,  "for  if  we  happen 
to  have  no  tea  in  the  house,  I  take  my  piece  of 
bread  in  one  hand  and  my  pen  in  the  other,  and 
sit  down  to  work." 

It  is  said  that  a  poet's  life  is  his  works.  This 
was  especially  the  case  with  Elizabeth  Kulmann. 
She  lived  and  breathed  but  in  poetry.  At  half- 
past  six  she  sat  down  to  her  desk,  where  she 
remained  till  one,  absorbed  in  the  composition  of 
her  poems,  never  suffering  herself  to  be  distracted 
by  what  was  going  on  around  her.  It  is  recorded 
of  her,  that  she  seemed  to  be  writing  under  the 


192  A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY. 

dictation  of  an  invisible  attendant,  rather  than 
committing  to  paper  the  produce  of  her  own  brain, 
so  rapidly  did  she  write.  She  has  been  known  to 
write  a  poem  of  five  hundred  lines  in  twelve  hours  ; 
her  manuscript  showing  that  not  more  than  twenty- 
seven  lines  had  been  subjected  to  correction. 
Many  of  these  lines  are,  doubtless,  not  what  would 
have  satisfied  her  riper  years ;  but  none  are  un- 
worthy of  her,  and  many  contain  beauties  which 
few  poets  have  excelled.  At  one  o'clock,  she  laid 
her  pen  aside,  and  walking  about  the  room,  would 
join  the  conversation  of  her  friends. 

At  half-past  one  she  partook  of  her  extremely 
simple  dinner,  of  which  meat  seldom  formed  a. 
part,  neither  she  nor  her  mother  being  partial  to 
it.  Walking  and  conversation  filled  up  the  time 
till  half-past  two,  when  she  began  to  work  again. 
This  time,  however,  it  was  not  with  the  pen,  but 
with  books,  to  gather  new  ideas  which  were  to  be 
moulded  into  poetical  forms  on  the  following 
day.  Her  afternoon  studies  were  generally  per- 
formed walking  or  standing ;  but  she  was  not  the 
less  absorbed  in  them,  and  fully  abstracted  from 
the  world  around  her.  At  tea-time,  her  classical 
studies  were  laid  aside,   and  she  found  time  for 


A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY.  193 

music,  drawing,  embroidery,  and  even  plain  sewing. 
Her  mother  often  read  aloud  to  her  during  the 
latter  occupations ;  and  the  remarks  of  mother 
and  daughter  are  said  to  have  been  such  as  would 
have  done  honor  even  to  the  learned.  Three  or 
four  times  a  week,  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
she  used  to  visit  their  friend  Mr.  Meder,  where,  in 
the  shape  of  conversation,  she  gained  an  extensive 
knowledge  of  astronomy,  geology,  and  natural 
philosophy.  Never,  perhaps,  were  thirst  of  know- 
ledge, memory,  and  activity,  united  in  one  indi- 
vidual in  so  high  a  degree  as  in  Elizabeth  Kul- 
mann.  But  the  secret  spring  which  set  in  motion 
such  extraordinary  perseverance  must  be  sought 
in  her  ambition,  or  rather  in  her  innate  aspirations 
for  fame.  "  I  will  acquire  fame,"  said  she,  "  but 
how  ?  certainly  not  by  inaction.  Well,  I  will  be 
active.  What  is  necessary  in  order  to  be  a  poet  ? 
Knowledge,  knowledge  of  a  thousand  different 
kinds,  invention,  unceasing  activity  in  execution; 
in  a  word,  the  determination  to  be  a  poet."  Earthly 
fame  is  a  poor  and  fleeting  object  of  pursuit ;  and 
although  she  has  used  that  term,  yet  we  think  that 
she  did  not  employ  it  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the 
word,  for  her  industry  was  founded  rather  on  the 
17 


194  A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY. 

conviction  that  she  had  been  gifted  with  great 
abilities,  and  a  desire  to  be  a  pattern  to  others  of 
diligently  improving  them. 

A  few  of  the  little  poems  found  among  her 
papers  after  her  death,  prove  that  it  was  not  with- 
out a  feeling  of  regret  that  she  saw  her  early 
career  drawing  to  a  close.  Others,  however,  prove 
that  she  was  really  resigned  to  her  lot,  as  her 
behavior  on  her  death-bed  proved  to  those  beloved 
ones  who  wept  beside  her.  She  died  on  the  19th 
of  November,  1825,  aged  seventeen  years  and 
three  months.  Three  nations  have  given  her  an 
honorable  rank  among  their  native  poets. 

A  monument  was  erected  to  her  memory  by  the 
Empress  Alexander  Fedorowna  and  the  Grand 
Duchess  Helena  Pawlowna,  both  of  whom  had 
paid  her  marks  of  distinction  during  her  lifetime. 
On  the  monument  are  eleven  inscriptions  in  the 
different  languages  with  which  she  was  acquainted. 
In  Latin  are  the  words :  "  The  first  Russian  female 
who  learned  Greek,  understood  eleven  languages, 
spoke  eight,  and,  though  a  young  girl,  yet  was  a 
distinguished  poetess."  In  English  are  the  words: 
"  She  from  her  early  days  prepared  herself  for 
heaven."     We  do  not  know  enough  of  her  "in- 


A  RUSSIAN  PRODIGY.  195 

terior  life"  to  know  the  grounds  on  which  this  con- 
clusion rests.  But  her  whole  career  is  certainly 
well  fitted  to  teach  us  the  lesson  of  the 'slight 
tenure  by  which  the  highest  earthly  gifts  are  held ; 
and  the  wisdom,  therefore,  of  making  that  prepara- 
tion which  her  tombstone  declares  that  she  did. 
Our  daily  life  should  indeed  be  a  constant  prepa- 
ration for  heaven  by  seeking  and  diligently  using 
those  supplies  of  the  Holy  Spirit's  grace,  which 
are  so  freely  imparted  to  all  who  ask  for  them 
aright. 


MY  MOTHER'S  STORY. 

I  have  often  suspected  that  my  mother  was 
fond  of  occupying  her  leisure  hours  in  writing ; 
and  I  knew  from  the  style  of  her  conversation 
that  she  was  capable  of  writing  very  well  either  in 
prose  or  verse,  if  she  chose  to  make  the  attempt. 
But  she  is  so  very  averse  to  every  thing  like  dis- 
play, that  whatever  she  may  have  produced  in  this 
way  has  always  been  destroyed  or  carefully  locked 
up  in  her  desk,  so  that  none  even  of  her  own 
family  could  obtain  a  sight  of  it. 

This  diffidence,  however,  recently  gave  way 
under  the  pressure  of  her  habitual  desire  for  use- 
fulness. To  produce  a  favorable  impression  on  the 
mind  of  a  friend,  who  was  suffering  intense  grief 
from  the  loss  of  a  favorite  child,  she  wrote  the 
following  story,  which  consequently  became  known 
to  me ;  and,  in  hopes  of  its  being  of  still  further 
use,  she  consented  to  its  publication. 


MARY'S  WHISPER. 

Maky  Lee,  in  her  luxurious  home,  surrounded 
by  costly  comforts  and  kind  and  loving  parents 
and  friends,  was  the  object  of  envy  to  many  a  less 
favored  child.  Early  accustomed  to  see  around 
her  all  external  advantages,  she  had  not,  as  many 
have  done,  hardened  her  heart  against  suffering  in 
others,  or  considered  that  she  was  more  worthy  than 
others,  because  she  had  never  known  hardship  or 
sorrow. 

She  had  reached  the  sweet  age  of  sixteen  before 
a  cloud  had  passed  over  her,  or  any  but  childish 
sorrows  ever  pained  her  gentle  heart.  She  had 
always  been  a  very  thoughtful,  quiet  child,  and  her 
early  youth  had  been  blessed  with  such  teachings 
from  her  beloved  mother  as  had  made  her  ac- 
quainted with  the  source  of  all  true  happiness,  and 
the  reward  of  earnest  "well-doing"  here.  To 
listen  to  her  mother's  teachings,  and  her  daily 
17*  (197) 


198  MARY'S  WHISPER. 

reading  from  the  "Book  of  "Life"  was  Mary's 
happiness. 

Her  mother's  health,  always  delicate,  had  failed 
rapidly  since  the  birth  of  her  last  little  boy,  and 
she  knew  that  her  earthly  career  must  soon  termi- 
nate, and  to  prepare  Mary  to  fill  her  place  as 
much  as  possible,  was  her  daily  endeavor. 

Mary  listened  to  her  every  word  with  tearful 
eyes  and  a  throbbing  heart,  but  with  an  earnest, 
prayerful  desire  to  fulfil  the  slightest  wish  ex- 
pressed by  the  daily  sinking  parent. 

"Mother,  dear,  let  me  dress  little  brother  this 
morning,"  said  Mary,  "you  seem  so  tired,  and 
your  cough  troubles  you.  I  know  you  do  not  like 
to  call  nurse  from  the  other  children.  I  am  sure  I 
can  dress  the  little  darling." 

"You  may  try,  Mary,"  said  her  mother,  with  a 
gentle  sigh.  "  It  will  be  your  daily  duty  soon,  my 
child ;  Henry  will  soon  have  no  other  mother. 
Will  you  be  very  patient  with  him,  Mary,  for  my 
sake  ?  You  know  he  is  a  fretful  child ;  but  he 
would  not  be  so  if  he  were  not  suffering  pain.  I 
think  he  will  not  stay  very  long  here,  Mary,  and 
you  will  try  and  make  his  little  life  as  pleasant  as 
you  can,  when  I  am  gone  home,  will  you  not  ?" 


mary's  whisper.  199 

With  many  tears,  Mary  promised  all  her  dear 
mother  wished;  and  very  soon  the  charge  came 
upon  her,  young  as  she  was.  Mrs.  Lee  soon  passed 
away,  leaving  to  her  children  a  sweet  memory  of 
never-failing  love  and  patience.  Little  Henry  soon 
followed,  his  brief  existence  made  as  joyous  as 
possible  by  his  kind  sister,  who  made  him  her 
especial  charge — the  other  children  being  well  and 
strong. 

Mr.  Lee,  though  a  very  kind,  indulgent  father, 
was  rather  reserved  and  silent,  and  his  children 
were  seldom  very  communicative  when  with  him. 
His  grief  for  the  death  of  his  wife  and  child  had 
never  been  very  demonstrative ;  but  those  who 
knew  him  best  could  trace  in  his  thinned  face  and 
silvered  hair  tokens  of  inward  grief. 

Mr.  Lee  had  one  son,  older  than  Mary,  who  had 
always  been  an  especial  favorite  with  his  father, 
and  whose  early  promise  of  great  and  good  quali- 
ties had  been  fully  realized.  He  had  reached 
the  age  of  twenty-one,  and  his  father  had  gradu- 
ally transferred  to  him  many  of  his  cares,  and 
found  in  his  ready  sympathy  a  sure  support  in 
many  an  anxious  hour. 

To  Mary  he  was   more   than  brother,  sharing 


200  mary's  whisper. 

with  her  even  the  daily  little  vexations  to  which 
she  was  subject  in  the  care  of  so  large  a  household 
as  her  father's,  always  cheering  her  on  when  a 
little  despondent,  or  rallying  her  with  a  light  laugh 
when  oppressed  with  some  of  her  daily  duties. 

"Come,  Mary,  now  for  a  ride  'over  the  hills 
and  far  away,'"  said  Charles,  bounding  into  the 
nursery,  whsre  patient  Mary  was  trying  to  subdue 
the  cries  of  a  refractory  little  girl.  "  There,  Lucy, 
don't  you  see  dear  sister  Mary  is  almost  crying  too, 
to  see  you  naughty." 

The  child  lifted  her  big,  blue  eyes  to  Mary's 
tearful  ones,  and  instantly  subdued  by  their  look 
of  patient  sorrow,  threw  her  little  arms  around  her 
neck  and  whispered  words  of  obedience. 

Away  they  rode  over  hill  and  dale,  enjoying  the 
sweet  breath  of  spring,  and  conversing  gaily  on 
various  subjects,  when  suddenly  a  bird  springing 
from  a  bush,  near  the  head  of  Charles's  horse, 
frightened  him  into  a  gallop,  before  Charles  could 
recover  his  rein,  which  he  had  laid  on  his  horse's 
neck  for  an  instant.  Mary's  horse,  more  gentle,  did 
not  run,  but  her  distress  became  very  great  when 
she  found  she  had  lost  sight  of  Charles.  She  did 
not  know  what  to  do,  but  after  having  pursued  the 


mary's  whisper.  201 

path  taken  by  Charles's  horse,  for  many  miles,  with- 
out seeing  him,  she  resolved  to  return  home,  think- 
ing, perhaps,  he  might  have  turned  that  way. 

On  reaching  home,  however,  she  found  he  had 
not  arrived,  and  fearing  to  distress  and  alarm  her 
father,  who  was  quite  unwell,  she  proceeded  to  the 
stable  to  send  one  of  the  men  in  pursuit  of  Charles, 
but  the  sound  of  a  horse's  feet  galloping  rapidly 
up  the  gravel  walk  caused  her  to  stop.  She 
turned,  and  there  was  Charles's  horse — but  where 
was  his  rider  ?  Down  on  the  river's  bank,  his  fair 
curls  pillowed  on  the  wet  rushes,  sleeping  his 
dreamless  sleep,  lay  poor  Charles  Lee.  His  horse 
had  throw  him  over  his  head  down  the  steep  bank 
to  the  edge  of  the  river. 

Now  had  a  mighty  sorrow,  indeed,  taken  pos- 
session of  the  elegant  house  of  Mr.  Lee.  A  crush- 
ing weight  of  grief  seemed  on  every  heart,  and 
silence  was  broken  only  by  sobs  and  cries.  Mr, 
Lee  bowed,  broken  hearted,  beneath  this  heavy 
sorrow,  and  nothing  seemed  able  to  rouse  him  from 
his  grief.  For  hours  he  would  sit  in  his  study,  his 
head  bowed  down  on  his  hands,  unheeding  any 
questions,  and  impatient  only  at  being  disturbed. 

Mary  wandered  about  with  her  mighty  grief,  at 


202  mary's  whisper. 

first  unable  to  react  under  its  pressure.  Gradu- 
ally, however,  with  her  came  back  the  promise  to 
her  dead  mother  to  fill  her  place  in  the  household. 
"She  would  not  have  mourned  this  way,"  said  poor 
Mary.  "No!  she  would  have  been  every  body's 
comforter,  and  I  took  upon  me  her  duties,  and 
must  fight  against  this  selfish  gi-ief  which  is  making 
me  unfit  for  her  place.  My  poor  father  needs  my 
constant  care,  and  I  will  rouse  again  to  action. 
Poor,  poor  Charles,  where  shall  I  turn  for  help 
now  you  are  gone?"  said  Mary,  bursting  into  a 
fresh  flood  of  tears. 

But  Mary  knew  where  to  trust.  The  lessons  of 
her  dead  mother  came  before  her  with  full  force, 
and  on  her  bended  knees,  in  the  silence  of  her  own 
room,  did  she  seek  and  find  an  Arm  on  which  to 
lean,  though  the  earthly  one  had  crumbled  into 
dust. 

Mary's  chief  anxiety  now  became  her  father. 
He  had  never  been  what  is  called  a  religious  man, 
and  Mary  had  but  little  idea  of  what  his  thoughts 
were  over  these  earthly  partings.  Sometimes, 
when  in  his  study,  she  would  try  to  ascertain  what 
books  he  read  most,  but  his  habits  of  order,  made 
him  restore  each  book  to  its  place  after  he  had 


mary's  whisper.  203 

done  with  it,  and  she  could  not  find  out  what  his 
favorites  were.  Of  one  thing  she  was  certain,  the 
"Book  of  Books,"  the  guide  and  counsellor  of  her 
dead  mother,  was  not  the  book  most  loved  and 
cherished.  It  was  a  sealed  book  to  Mr.  Lee,  or  if 
read,  it  was  only  with  a  faint  perception  of  its 
truths,  and  very  little  application  to  his  own  state. 

Mary  had  watched  and  prayed  for  her  dear 
father,  and  earnestly  hoped  that  light  would  break 
in  on  his  dark  night  of  grief,  but  she  watched  in 
vain.  Darker  and  darker  grew  the  shadows  round 
her  despairing  father. 

One  day  she  resolved  to  try  and  induce  him  to 
read  some  of  her  own  and  her  mother's  favorite 
passages  from  the  Bible.  She  felt  timid  to  speak 
to  him,  but  she  thought  she  might  venture  to  lay 
on  the  table  before  him  his  wife's  Bible,  open  where 
she  used  to  read. 

The  chapter  selected  by  Mary  was  that  which 
records  the  raising  of  Lazarus,  and  with  a  beating 
heart  and  many  tears  she  left  her  mother's  Bible 
on  the  the  table,  before  his  easy  chair,  where  he 
habitually  sat,  nursing  his  grief,  and  never  seeking 
to  know  why  it  was  that  he  was  called  to  suffer. 

Mary  was  in  the  next  room  when  she  heard  her 


204  mary's  whisper. 

father  enter  his  study,  and  she  waited  in  silence  to 
hear  some  word  spoken  by  the  grief-stricken  man 
which  might  indicate  his  state  of  mind.  She 
waited  long  in  silence.  No  sound  reached  her 
anxious  ear,  until  at  last  she  was  roused  from  her 
long  reverie  by  the  sound  of  a  heavy  book  falling 
to  the  floor.  She  ventured  in,  and  saw  her  father 
with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  the  Bible  on 
the  floor,  and  big  tears  coursing  down  his  cheeks. 
She  stood  behind  his  chair  silent,  and  crushing 
back,  with  a  great  effort,  the  sobs  which  she  longed 
to  utter,  but  letting  the  tears  fall  unchecked.  At 
last,  laying  her  hand  gently  on  her  father's 
shoulder,  she  whispered  "  They  are  not  dead,  but 
sleeping." 

Soft  as  was  the  whisper,  it  was  heard  within  the 
strong  man's  heart,  and  tears,  such  as  he  had 
never  shed  before,  took  the  place  of  despairing  sobs. 

Day  after  day  did  Mary  find  the  shadow  grow- 
ing less  on  her  dear  father's  brow,  and  slowly,  but 
steadily  came  back  the  marks  of  his  loving  care  for 
his  dear  ones  yet  left  to  him. 

Mary  never  found  that  Book  shut  or  laid  away. 
It  was  always  by  him — always  open,  and  though 
many  words  were  never  spoken  between  them,  his 


mart's  whisper,     p.  204. 


MARY'S  WHISPER.  205 

rapidly  returning  cheerfulness  told  that  he  had 
found  the  "Comforter,"  and  that  his  dear  ones 
still  lived  for  him.  "Mary's  "whisper"  had  found 
his  better-self,  and  out  of  the  thick  darkness  of  his 
selfish  sorrow,  the  light  had  shone  which  once 
brightened  that  scene.  Now  our  Lord  spoke  com- 
fort to  the  despairing  ruler,  "She  is  not  dead,  but 
sleepeth." 


18 


SISTER  MARTHA. 

The  following  story,  read  with  much  delight  by 
the  "  Folks  at  Home,"  is  abridged  and  adapted 
from  the  French. 

"  Remember  that  if  the  hundred  crowns  arrears 
of  rent  on  your  farm  are  not  paid  before  to-morrow 
evening,  you  must  turn  out ;  I  have  a  solvent  tenant 
ready  to  take  possession."  So  saying,  a  stern- 
looking  man,  dressed  in  brown,  walked  quickly  out 
of  a  cottage  in  the  pretty  village  of  Thoraise,  near 
Besancon. 

"  Oh,  sir  !"  said  a  woman,  following  him  and 
clasping  her  hands,  "  have  pity  on  my  poor  hus- 
band, who  has  been  ill  all  the  summer,  and  who  is 
still " 

"I  should  have  no  objection,  Madame  Biget," 

said  the  steward  ;   "  but  it  does  not  rest  with  me. 

My  lord  is  now  absent,  but  he  will  be  here  to-day  or 

to-morrow ;  my  accounts  must  be  all  squared  and 

(206) 


SISTER  MARTHA.  207 

ready  for  his  inspection.  I  am  not  going  to  lose 
my  situation  for  your  convenience,  Madame  Biget 
so  you  must  manage  the  best  way  you  can." 

"Ah  me!"  exclaimed  the  poor  woman,  raising 
her  eyes  appealingly  towards  Heaven  :  "  I  have  no 
hope  then  left  me  from  man." 

Re-entering  the  cottage,  she  opened  a  cupboard 
and  took  out  a  piece  of  brown  bread.  "  Martha," 
she  said,  addressing  a  child  of  ten  years  old,  "  there 
is  your  breakfast,  my  child ;  I  have  neither  milk 
nor  butter  to  give  you  to-day." 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  that  does  not  signify ;  but  why 
do  you  look  so  sad?" 

"  Don't  ask  me,  child,  but  make  haste  to  eat  your 
bread.  Your  aunt  at  Besancon  has  sent  you  and 
your  brothers  and  sisters  a  cake  a  piece ;  I  wish 
you  to  take  them  theirs  to  school." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  mamma  ;  and  if  you  will  allow 
me,  I  will  go  at  once,  and  keep  my  cake  and  bread 
to  eat  with  them  when  they  are  all  together." 

Her  mother  gave  her  leave  ;  and  Martha,  with 
her  little  basket  on  her  arm,  was  soon  tripping 
gaily  along  the  road. 

It  was  a  fine  morning  in  October,  1757,  and  as 
little  Martha  went  on  her  way,  she  saw  a  vast  cloud 


208  SISTER  MARTHA. 

of  dust  advancing.  Presently  a  large  party  of 
dragoons  appeared,  followed  by  a  number  of  men 
on  foot,  dressed  in  uniform,  but  unarmed.  The 
child  stopped  on  the  road  close  by  the  hedge,  and, 
as  the  party  passed  by  her,  she  heard  a  low  sigh, 
and  saw  that  one  of  the  prisoners  of  war,  for  such 
they  were,  had  fallen  on  the  ground.  He  looked 
pale  as  death  and  his  eyes  were  closed.  Martha 
bent  over  him,  and  said,  "  What  is  the  matter  poor 
man  ?" 

The  fainting  soldier  did  not  answer,  but  one  of 
his  comrades,  who  knew  a  little  French,  replied, 
"  He's  dying  of  hunger,  like  the  rest  of  us,  little 
girl." 

"  Dying  of  hunger  !"  repeated  she,  and  her  first 
impulse  was  to  open  her  basket  and  to  give  its  con- 
tents to  the  prisoner ;  but  a  sudden  thought  checked 
her.  "  These  cakes  don't  belong  to  me,"  she  said 
to  herself.  However,  she  took  her  own  cake  and 
her  piece  of  bread  and  gave  them  to  the  poor  man, 
who  was  now  some  what  revived,  and  began  to  de- 
vour the  food  with  the  utmost  eagerness.  At  the 
same  moment  several  other  prisoners  held  out  their 
supplicating  hands  :  they  looked  so  pale  and  thin 
and  wretched,  that  the  child's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 


SISTER  MARTHA.  209 

"  Oh  !"  she  thought,  "if  my  brothers  and  sisters 
were  here,  I  am  certain  they  would  not  grudge 
their  cakes  to  these  poor  people.  I'm  afraid 
mamma  won't  be  pleased ;  but  then  hunger  is  such 
a  dreadful  thing,  I  must  give  them."  So  the  little 
girl,  who  had  not  herself  tasted  any  thing  that  day, 
divided  her  little  store,  as  far  as  it  would  go, 
amongst  the  prisoners. 

"I  have  no  more,"  she  said  at  last,. in  so  sad  a 
tone  that  the  French  captain  who  commanded  the 
detachment,  and  who  had  been  silently  watching 
her,  approached. 

"A  pretty  business  this,"  he  said,  affecting  a 
severe  tone,  "  to  give  your  breakfast  to  your 
enemies  !" 

"Enemies,  sir!"  exclaimed  Martha,  "they  are 
poor  hungry  people." 

"Yes,  but  they  are  English;  and  the  English 
are  the  enemies  of  France." 

"  Sir,  I  never  thought  whether  they  were  ene- 
mies or  not  when  I  saw  them  suffering." 

The  officer  took  her  little  hand.  "  Have  you 
eaten  your  own  breakfast,  my  child?" 

"No  sir." 

"  Then  you  must  be  very  hungry  ?" 
18* 


210  SISTER  MARTHA. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  much  mind ;  I'm  used  to  it." 
"  Does  your  mother  allow  you  to  want  food  ?" 
"  Oh,  no,  sir,  my  mother  always  gives  us  child- 
ren our  meals  before  she  takes  a  bit  herself.  "When 
I  am  hungry,  it  is    not  her  fault,  but  mine  for 
giving  my  bread  away." 

At  that  moment,  an  inferior  officer  approached 
the  captain  to  ask  for  orders,  and  Martha  went 
away,  retracing  her  steps  towards  home ;  for,  not 
having  any  thing  to  carry  to  her  brothers  and 
sisters,  it  would  have  been  useless  to  visit  them  at 
school.  "  What  will  my  mother  say  ?"  she  thought. 
"  I  will  tell  her  the  exact  truth,  and  then  I  hope 
she  will  not  be  angry." 

When  Martha  entered  the  usually  neat  cottage, 
she  was  surprised  to  see  the  furniture  in  disorder, 
and  her  father,  who  during  the  last  six  months  had 
never  quitted  his  bed,  seated,  pale  and  faint,  in  an 
arm-chair.  Her  mother  was  counting  some  money 
in  her  lap,  pausing  now  and  then  to  brush  away 
the  tears  that  filled  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 
"  We  are  ruined,"  replied  her  mother,  "  and  will 
in  future  have  to  beg  our  bread." 

The    child   threw   her   arms   around  the    poor 


SISTER  MARTHA.  211 

woman's  neck,  and  exclaimed  "  Oh,  no,  mamma,  I'll 
work  for  you !" 

"  Poor  child  !"  said  Madame  Biget,  sorrowfully, 
looking  at  her  daughter's  slight  delicate  frame. 

"But  mamma  how  has  all  this  happened?" 

"  We  owe  our  Lord  de  Varenne  one  hundred 
crowns  for  rent ;  all  that  we  possess  would  not  pay 
it,  and  his  steward  told  us  we  must  give  up  the 
farm." 

"Instead  of  talking  to  that  child,  Catherine," 
said  her  husband,  peevishly,  "  you  ought  to  cook 
the  dinner." 

"The  dinner  is  both  cooked  and  eaten,  dear," 
said  his  wife,  gently ;  "  did  not  I  give  you  your 
soup  just  now?" 

"But  your  dinner  and  the  children's?" 

"Ah,  they  had  some  nice  cakes  which  my  sister 
sent  them ;  and  as  for  me,  my  heart  is  too  full  to 
eat." 

Poor  little  Martha  turned  pale,  and  trembled  so 
visibly,  that  her  father  remarked  it,  and  said,  "  I'll 
answer  for  it,  she  has,  as  usual  given  her  breakfast 
to  some  poor  person." 

"  Mamma — papa — don't  be  angry,"  said  the 
child  bursting  into  tears;  "but  I  met  some  poor 


212  SISTER  MARTHA. 

prisoners  on  the  road ;  they  seemed  to  be  dying  of 
hunger,  and  you  know  that  God  commands  us  to 
feed  the  hungry,  and  so  I  could  not  help  giving  them 
all  the  cakes." 

"Naughty  child!"  cried  her  mother,  angry  at 
the  thought  of  what  her  children  might  suffer ; 
"  how  dared  you  give  away  all  that  you  had  ?" 

,"  God  feeds  the  little  birds,  mother,  he  will  not 
let  us  want,"  said  Martha,  in  a  tone  of  such  gentle 
persuasion,  that  Madame  Biget  was  quite  softened, 
and  said ;  "  Well,  well,  I  have  enough  for  ye  all  to- 
day." And,  giving  the  child  a  bowl  of  vegetable 
soup,  thickened  with  barley,  she  laid  by  equal  por- 
tions for  the  others.  As  Martha  was  eating  hers, 
she  remarked  that  her  mother  had  kept  none  for 
herself,  and  said:  "  Mamma,  you  don't  eat." 
"  I  can't,  child." 

"Mamma,"  said  Martha,  after  a  pause,  "will 
you  permit  me  to  go  out  for  two  hours  ?" 
"Whither  do  you  want  to  go  ?" 
"  Please  don't  ask  me  until  I  return." 
"Let  her  go  if  she  wishes  it,"  said  her  father; 
"  I  dare  say  there  are  some  poor  sick  persons  she 
wants  to  visit.     Kiss  me,  Martha;  you  are  a  kind 
child,  and  God  will  bless  you." 


SISTER  MARTHA.  213 

Good  morning,  Dame  Siinonne,"  said  Martha,  as 
she  approached  a  cottage  door  where  an  old  woman 
was  sitting. 

"And  good  morning  to  you,  Martha  Biget;  you 
look  tired,  little  one.  Come  in  and  rest  yourself. 
Have  you  far  to  go  ?" 

"  To  the  castle,  dame." 

"Ah,  you  want  to  see  the  bonfires  that  are  to 
be  lighted  in  honor  of  my  lord's  return." 

"  Then  he  is  arrived  ?"  said  the  child,  clapping  her 
hands;  "I  am  so  glad,  for  I  want  to  speak  to  him." 

The  old  woman  burst  out  laughing.  "  It  won't 
be  very  easy  for  a  poor  child  like  you  to  get  speech 
of  him  to-day." 

"What  shall  I  do  ?"  said  Martha,  despondingly. 

"Is  your  business  very  pressing?" 

"Oh,  indeed  it  is,  dame.  But  who  are  these 
two  children  coming  towards  us  ?  how  beautifully 
they  are  dressed !" 

"  They  are  my  foster-children,  Martha — the  son 
and  daughter  of  Lord  de  Varenne.  The  moment 
they  return  from  town,  they  run  to  see  their  old 
nurse.  Darlings!"  she  exclaimed,  extending  her 
arms  to  receive  a  boy  of  ten  and  a  girl  of  about  a 
year  older. 


214  SISTER  MARTHA. 

"  Have  you  made  a  hot  cake  for  us,  nurse  ?" 
asked  the  little  boy,  throwing  his  arms  round  her 
neck. 

"Look  at  the  beautiful  scarf  that  papa  has  given 
me,"  said  the  girl,  spreading  out  on  Dame  Si- 
monne's  knees  a  silken  scarf,  splendidly  embroi- 
dered with  silver  and  seed-pearls.  "  Is  it  not 
lovely?     Papa  says  it  cost  a  hundred  crowns." 

Martha,  who  had  hid  herself  bashfully  behind 
nurse's  chair,  ventured  to  glance  at  the  scarf. 

"A  hundred  crowns  !"  thought  she;  "just  what 
my  father  owes."  And  she  thought  sadly  .how 
happy  the  sum  which  that  piece  of  useless  finery 
had  cost  would  have  made  her  parents. 

"How  melancholy  that  little  girl  looks!"  said 
the  young  lady,  remarking  Martha's  presence  for 
the  first  time. 

"  She  wants  very  much  to  speak  to  your  father, 
Mademoiselle  Marie,"  said  her  nurse. 

"To  papa?  That  won't  be  difficult.  He  is 
quite  near,  for  he  walked  hither  with  us.  Papa ! 
papa  !  Cyprien,  do  you  call,  for  your  voice  is 
stronger  than  mine — papa!"  she  continued,  ad- 
dressing an  officer,  who  advanced,  talking  to  an 
elderly  man,  dressed  in  brown,  "  here  is  a  little 


SISTER  MARTHA.  215 

girl  who  wants  to  speak  to  you."  And  taking 
Martha  kindly  by  the  hand,  Marie  presented  her 
to  her  father. 

Poor  Martha !  she  had  arranged  a  little  speech 
in  her  head,  which  was  to  have  commenced  with, 
"My  lord,  have  pity  on  us!"  But  when  she  found 
herself  standing  before  him,  she  blushed  and 
trembled,  and  could  not  utter  a  single  word. 

Meantime,  Lord  de  Varenne  looked  at  her 
closely,  and  exclaimed,  "  'Tis  the  little  damsel  of 
the  cakes !  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  for  you, 
dear  child?"  he  asked,  smiling  kindly.  "  Do  you 
want  some  more  cakes  to  give  to  the  prisoners  ?" 

"  Ah,  no,  my  lord !  It  was  something  quite 
different" 

"  Well,  my  child,  speak,  don't  be  afraid.  I  saw 
you  this  morning  peform  an  action,  which  I  would 
have  given  the  best  farm  in  my  possession  to  have 
seen  done  by  Marie.  I  looked  for  you  afterwards, 
but  you  were  gone.  Come,  hold  up  your  head  and 
speak  freely.  If  what  you  want  be  in  my  power  to 
bestow,  I  promise  now  not  to  refuse  it  to  her  who 
this  morning  went  without  her  breakfast  to  feed  the 
hungry  prisoners." 

At  these  kind  words  Martha  fell  on  her  knees, 


216  SISTER  MARTHA. 

and  clasping  her  hands,  exclaimed :  "  Oh,  my 
father  and  my  mother  !  you  will  be  saved !  My 
lord,"  she  continued,  "my  father  owes  you  one 
hundred  crowns — he  cannot  pay  it,  on  account  of 
the  hail,  and  the  rain,  and 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !"  interrupted  the  man  in 
brown.  "  My  lord  if  you  listen  to  all  your  tenants 
choose  to  tell  you,  you  will  find  that  the  hail,  or  the 
rain,  or  the  sun,  will  always  prevent  them  paying 
their  rent." 

"  Silence  !  M.  Dubois,"  said  his  master,  sternly. 
"If  this  little  girl  assures  me  that  her  father  can- 
not pay,  I  fully  believe  her.  The  parents  who 
have  brought  her  up,  must  be  worthy  people.  Stand 
up,  my  child ;  go  home  and  tell  your  father  and 
mother  not  to  be  uneasy.  I  will  go  and  see  them 
to-morrow.  Meantime,  here  is  something  to  re- 
plenish your  basket  of  cakes."  And  Lord  de  Va- 
renne  put  into  Martha's  trembling  hands  a  purse 
nearly  filled  with  silver. 

The  child  felt  as  if  she  were  dreaming.  "  Is  it 
mine — all  mine — all  mine  ?"  she  said.  And  her 
friend  having  assured  her  that  it  was,  she  scarcely 
waited  to  thank  and  bless  him,  but  darted  off  home- 
wards at  full  speed.  Out  of  breath,  she  rushed  into 


SISTER  MARTHA.  217 

the  cottage,  threw  the  purse  into  her  mother's  lap, 
and  exclaiming :  "  Take  this ;  my  lord  will  come 
himself  to-morrow !" — fell  nearly  fainting  on  the 
ground.  She  soon,  however,  recovered ;  and  in 
her  parents'  thanks  and  blessings  found  a  sweet 
recompense  for  her  conduct. 

Such  is  one  of  the  anecdotes  which  a  French 
writer  had  related  of  the  early  life  of  Martha  Biget, 
whose  subsequent  career  of  benevolence  corresponds 
with  the  promise  of  her  childhood.  During  the 
bloody  scenes  of  the  French  Kevolution,  she  lived 
at  Besan^on,  and  her  house  was  a  place  of  refuge  for 
old  or  sick  people  or  children.  She  lived  on  brown 
bread  and  milk,  in  order  to  have  more  to  give 
away.  On  the  23d  of  March,  1805,  a  fire  broke 
out  in  a  small  village  near  Besangon.  Sister 
Martha  (as  she  was  commonly  called)  hastened  to 
the  spot,  and  did  what  she  could  to  bring  aid  to 
the  sufferers.  A  cottage,  inhabited  by  a  woman 
and  two  orphan  children  of  whom  she  had  charge, 
burned  so  rapidly,  that  despite  of  Martha's  tears 
and  entreaties,  no  one  would  venture  to  enter  it. 
She  offered  every  thing  she  possessed  as  a  bribe, 
but  in  vain.  At  length,  feeble  woman  as  she  was, 
she  rushed  herself  into  the  burning  ruin,  and,  aided 
19 


218  SISTER  MARTHA. 

no  doubt  by  the  Divine  assistance  on  which  she 
relied,  succeeded  in  rescuing  the  three  helpless  in- 
mates. On  another  occasion,  in  1807,  while  occu- 
pied in  gathering  medicinal  herbs  on  the  bank  of 
the  river  Doubs,  she  heard  a  loud  splash  near  her : 
it  was  a  child  of  nine  years  old,  the  son  of  a  poor 
shepherd,  who  had  fallen  into  the  water.  Martha, 
without  knowing  how  to  swim,  jumped  in  after 
him,  and  succeeded  in  rescuing  the  drowning  child. 
Prisoners  of  war  always  excited  her  most  active 
sympathy.  There  was  at  Besangon  a  sort  of  depot 
of  sick  and  wounded  prisoners,  belonging  to  almost 
every  country  in  Europe.  Martha  worked  for 
them,  begged  for  them,  and  nursed  them  in  their 
illness.  Many  a  stout  fellow  was  through  her  kind 
offices,  restored  to  the  friends  who  wept  for  him  on 
the  banks  of  the  Tagus,  the  Oder,  or  the  Volga. 

During  the  years  1813  and  1814,  France  was 
desolated  by  the  horrors  of  war.  Sister  Martha 
braved  all  the  dangers  of  the  battle-field,  to  carry 
succour  to  the  wounded,  whether  friends  or  ene- 
mies. She  has  been  seen  to  approach  them  under 
the  very  mouth  of  the  cannon,  and  after  the 
bloodiest  actions  were  ended,  her  place  was  in  the 
field-hospitals.      On   one   occasion,   in   1814,  the 


SISTER  MARTHA.  219 

Duke  of  Reggio  met  her,  and  said,  "  I  have  long 
been  familiar  with  your  name,  madame,  for  when- 
ever my  soldiers  are  wounded,  their  first  cry  always 
is,  '  Where  is  our  Sister  Martha  ?'  " 

Shortly  after  this  period  she  received  what,  to  a 
disposition  like  her's,  was  the  sweetest  reward  :  she 
succeeded  in  obtaining  the  pardon  of  a  poor  con- 
script who  had  deserted,  and  who  had  been  led  out 
to  be  shot.  Sister  Martha,  however,  was  not  left 
without  worldly  honors.  In  1801,  the  Agricultural 
Society  of  Besangon  presented  her  with  a  silver 
medal,  on  which  was  inscribed,  "  Homage  to 
virtue."  In  1815,  the  war  minister  sent  her  the 
decoration  of  a  cross ;  and  the  same  year  the 
Emperor  of  Russia  sent  her  a  gold  medal.  The 
King  of  Prussia  caused  one  of  his  ministers,  Prince 
Hardenberg,  to  write  her  a  letter  of  thanks  for  the 
care  she  had  bestowed  on  the  sick  and  wounded 
Prussian  prisoners,  and  the  letter  was  accompanied 
by  an  offering  of  one  hundred  pieces  of  gold.  The 
Emperor  of  Austria  and  the  King  of  Spain  sent 
her  decorations.  On  his  restoration  to  his  throne, 
Louis  XVIII.  desired  to  see  her,  and  gave  her  a 
most  gracious  reception. 

The  famine  of  1817  exhausted  all  the  treasury 


220  SISTER  MARTHA. 

of  presents  which  Sister  Martha  had  received.  She 
found  means,  however,  to  distribute  gratuitously  to 
the  poor,  two  thousand  portions  of  soup  every  day. 
When  the  return  of  abundance  put  an  end  to  the 
sufferings  of  the  people,  and  when  war  had  given 
place  to  peace,  Sister  Martha  retired  to  end  her 
days  in  peaceful  obscurity,  and  died  on  the  29th  of 
March,  1824,  aged  seventy-six  years. 

How  sweet  it  is  to  contemplate  a  career  of  be- 
nevolence in  contrast  with  a  life  of  selfishness. 
Especially  delightful  is  it  to  do  so  when  kindness 
flows  from  Christian  principle,  and  is  the  fruit  of 
love  to  God,  the  only  motive  which  can  be  regarded 
with  favor  by  the  great  Searcher  of  hearts. 


WILLIE'S  PET. 

[By  much  entreaty  I  have  obtained  one  more 
story  from  my  mother,  and  here  it   is.] 

"  Poor,  poor  little  Emma !  what  will  she  do  ? 
what  will  become  of  her  ?  She  will  fret  herself  to 
death!"  was  the  repeated  exclamation  when  Em- 
ma's darling  brother  Willie  slept  the  long  sleep  of 
death.  And  no  wonder  it  was  said  and  thought, 
for  between  the  children  there  had  always  existed 
a  more  than  ordinary  affection.  The  only  offspring 
of  loving  and  tender  parents,  their  early  childhood 
had  passed  unsullied  by  bad  passions,  and  un- 
touched by  sorrow.  Every  day  was  renewed  joy- 
fulness  to  the  sweet  children,  and  a  thought  of 
separation  had  never  crossed  their  minds.  Perfect 
health  had  always  been  theirs,  and  even  their 
parents,  anxious  at  first  for  their  darlings,  had 
become  lulled  into  security  by  their  long  freedom 
19*  (221) 


222  WILLIE'S  PET. 

from  any  illness.  But,  when  least  expected,  death 
entered  the  sanctuary  of  their  home. 

"Mamma,"  said  little  Emma,  as  she  returned 
with.  Willie  from  a  long  walk  in  the  village  near 
their  beautiful  home  on  the  Hudson,  "  I  think  little 
Charlie  Wilson  must  be  sick." 

"  Why  so  ?"  said  her  mother. 

"  He  would  not  play  with  Willie  and  me.  What 
made  his  cheeks  so  red,  mamma?" 

Emma's  mother  told  her  she  would  walk  to  the 
village  and  call  on  the  little  boy,  but  no  thought 
of  danger  to  her  own  little  ones  crossed  her  mind. 
There  was  no  sickness  prevailing  at  the  time,  and 
she  scarcely  thought  of  Charlie's  indisposition  as 
any  thing  of  consequence.  On  reaching  the  village, 
however,  before  visiting  him,  she  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  speak  to  a  farmer  who  was  proceed- 
ing to  her  house  with  some  hay. 

"  Good  morning,  ma'am,"  said  Farmer  Jones, 
"  fine  morning. 

"  Very  fine,"  said  Mrs.  Hammond.  "  How  are 
all  your  family  ?" 

"  Right  well  and  hearty,  I  thank  you,  ma'am ; 
but  our  neighbor  Wilson  is  in  great  trouble." 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter?"  said  Mrs.  Ham- 


WILLIE'S  PET.  223 

mond,  suddenly  seized  with  a  troubled  feeling,  "  is 
Charlie  worse  ?" 

"  Then  you  knew  he  was  sick,"  said  Farmer 
Jones. 

"  Yes,  my  children  were  there  yesterday,  and 
said  he  would  not  play  at  all." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,"  said  Farmer  Jones, 
and  then  stopped,  as  if  he  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"Why,  Mr.  Jones,  you  alarm  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Hammond,  "what  can  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why — little  Charlie  is  dead — died  of  scarlet 
fever,  ma'am,  and  I  was  sorry  to  hear  that  Miss 
Emma  and  Master  Willie  had  been  there." 

Mrs.  Hammond  was  very  anxious  and  alarmed, 
but  went  on  to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Wilson.  Having 
done  all  she  could  for  the  distressed  family,  her 
thoughts  again  painfully  recurred  to  the  danger  to 
her  own  children,  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  wanted 
wings  to  fly  to  them  and  assure  herself  of  their 
safety.  Their  joyous  laughter  and  merry  shouts, 
as  they  frolicked  on  the  lawn,  eased  her  mind  of  its 
anxiety,  though  she  had  to  check  their  gayety  and 
saddened  their  kind  hearts  by  telling  them  of  little 
Charlie's  departure.  So  sudden  and  unexpected, 
it  awed  them  into  silence,  and  for  a  day  or  two 


224  willte's  pet. 

they  seemed  very  quiet ;  but  their  natural  liveli- 
ness soon  returned,  and  Mrs.  Hammond's  anxiety 
was  fast  subsiding,  as  each  successive  day  seemed 
to  remove  further  the  danger  of  their  having  taken 
the  disease  from  the  little  boy. 

"Where  are  the  children,  nurse?"  said  Mrs. 
Hammond,  returning  from  a  visit. 

"  They  are  in  the  wood,  ma'am,"  said  the  nurse. 
"  They  said  they  were  so  tired  of  playing  with 
their  toys  that  they  would  take  their  books  and  go 
to  their  favorite  seat  under  the  great  elm." 

"  Very  well,  I  will  go  to  them ;  I  have  some 
very  pretty  little  gifts  for  them,"  said  Mrs. 
Hammond. 

On  reaching  the  tree,  Mrs  Hammond  was  sur- 
prised to  find  both  the  children  sleeping  soundly 
on  the  grass,  and  became  very  uneasy  when  she 
noticed  their  quick  breathing  and  flushed  cheeks. 
She  awoke  them  gently  and  showed  them  their 
presents,  but  they  seemed  wanting  in  their  usual 
vivacity,  and  showed  comparatively  little  interest 
in  their  pretty  toys. 

Mrs.  Hammond's  fears  were  confirmed.  The 
next  day  the  dreaded  disease  showed  itself  plainly, 
and  for    many   hours  the   symptoms   were  very 


WILLIE'S  PET.  225 

severe.  Little  Emma,  however,  soon  showed  signs 
of  amendment ;  but  Willie  grew  rapidly  worse,  and 
a  few  days  terminated  his  beautiful  earthly  exist- 
ence, to  be  removed  and  to  become  more  beautiful  in 
his  real  and  eternal  home. 

Of  the  grief  of  the  parents  it  is  in  vain  to 
speak.  Those  who  have  bowed  under  the  same 
trial  well  know  it  cannot  be  described  in  half  its 
bitterness,  and  to  those  who  have  not,  language 
would  fail  to  give  any  just  idea.  Willie's  parents 
sorrowed  as  those  do  who  have  earnest,  trusting 
faith  that  though  removed  from  their  care  and 
love,  "It  was  well  with  the  child." 

But  what  can  we  say  of  Emma's  wild,  passion- 
ate grief  when  she  found  her  little  playmate,  her 
constant  companion,  her  loving  brother,  absent 
from  her  side,  silent  to  her  tearful  cries.  It  was 
painful  to  see  her  wandering  about  the  house  and 
grounds,  listless  and  melancholy,  only  varying  by 
tears  and  sobs  her  joyless  existence.  Every  means 
was  tried  to  rouse  her  and  interest  her,  but  in 
vain;  and  "poor,  poor  Emma,"  was  the  remark 
made  by  all  who  saw  her,  "  she  will  fret  herself 
to  death."  Even  the  physician  said  something 
must  be   done  to  rouse  her,  and  recommended 


226  WILLIE'S  PET. 

change  of  scene ;  but  the  result  showed  no  great 
improvement,  and  Mrs.  Hammond  returned  home 
almost  despairing  of  Emma's  recovery,  and  think- 
ing that  another  link  in  her  ties  to  earthly  loves 
must  soon  be  broken. 

But  a  remedy  was  near  of  which  they  had  not 
thought.  Willie  had  shared  his  love  to  Emma 
with  numerous  pets.  He  had  a  love  for  animals 
unusual  in  a  boy  of  his  age,  and  which  his  father 
indulged  by  procuring  for  him  such  as  he  liked 
most.  He  had,  among  others,  a  noble  Newfound- 
land dog,  the  gift  of  an  uncle,  who  was  dead. 
Carlo,  the  dog,  was  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of 
his  race.  Gentle  and  affectionate  to  all  who  were 
kind  to  him,  he  was  capable  of  guarding  and  pro- 
tecting from  the  unfriendly  or  the  robber.  He  was 
considered  by  the  children's  parents  sufficient  pro- 
tection for  them  in  their  long  rambles  from  home, 
and  they  never  felt  anxiety  when  he  was  near 
them.  Willie's  love  for  his  dog,  was  nearly  as 
strong  as  his  love  for  Emma ;  and  of  all  his  pets, 
Carlo  was  the  chosen.  At  the  time  of  his  illness, 
Carlo  was  sent  away,  as  his  cries  and  barks  for  his 
young  master  became  distressing  to  the  family,  and 
he  had  remained  with  a  friend  until  a  considerable 


WILLIE'S  PET.  227 

time  had  elapsed  after  Emma's  departure  for  her 
journey. 

During  her  absence,  Carlo  returned,  and  it  would 
have  melted  a  hard  heart  to  have  seen  the  poor 
animal's  distress  at  missing  both  the  children. 
He  wandered  about  from  house  to  garden,  and 
then  to  the  wood,  expressing  his  sorrow  in  low 
cries  and  howls,  and  refusing  his  food  until  they 
thought  he  too  would  die. 

Poor  Carlo  was  laying  asleep,  under  the  portico, 
when  Mrs.  Hammond  and  Emma  returned.  Em- 
ma looked,  if  possible,  more  distressed  than  when 
she  left  home.  She  had  for  a  long  time  ceased  to 
weep  for  Willie,  and  the  silent  grief  of  such  a  child 
was  more  alarming  than  more  violent  sorrow. 

The  moment  the  poor  child  caught  sight  of 
Carlo,  she  made  a  loud  outcry,  and  bounded  up  the 
steps,  flinging  her  arms  around  the  dog's  neck,  and 
crying  "Willie!  Willie!"  with  floods  of  tears. 
The  dog  apparently  sympathized  with  her,  for  he 
licked  her  face  and  hands  and  alternately  bounded 
around  her,  with  barks  of  joy,  and  then  changing 
them  to  a  low,  mournful  wail. 

From  that  time,  Emma  improved  rapidly.     She  ' 
seemed  to  have  somewhat  united  again  the  chain 


228  WILLIE'S  PET. 

of  her  loving  thoughts  for  her  dear  little  brother 
Willie,  and  found  in  his  lowly  friend  a  comforter 
and  companion. 

To  walk  with  Carlo  to  the  river's  bank,  and 
watch  and  feed  Willie's  rabbits,  formed  her  daily 
happiness.  For  hours  would  the  affectionate  child 
sit  with  the  patient,  loving  animal,  her  soft,  white 
arms  around  his  shaggy  neck,  and  talk  with  him 
about  her  dear  brother  Willie,  perfectly  satisfied 
with  his  mute  answers,  and  seeking  for  sympathy 
in  his  intelligent  eyes. 

The  mother  once  came  near  her  without  Emma's 
knowledge,  and  her  own  heart  was  comforted  to 
hear  the  sweet,  trusting  words  murmured  by  her 
only  darling  to  her  silent  companion. 

"You  know,  Carlo,  dear,  mamma  says,  darling 
Willie  is  not  in  the  ground,  where  I  used  to  think 
he  was,  in  those  sad,  sad  days  when  he  first  left 
us,  but  that  he  is  living  in  such  a  beautiful  country, 
more  beautiful  than  this,  Carlo,  where  it  never 
rains  nor  snows,  and  where  he  can  never  suffer 
dreadful  pain  again.  Oh !  Carlo,  I  want  to  go 
there  so  much ;  but  then  dear  mamma  would  be 
left  all  alone,  and  she  could  not  talk  to  you  and 
hug  you  as  I  do,  Carlo,  and  then  she  would  feel 


willih's  pet.     p.  228. 


WILLIE'S  PET.  229 

very  sad.  So  I  will  not  wish  to  go  any  more,  but 
will  try  and  be  very  happy  here." 

"  Carlo,  see  that  pretty,  white  cloud — up  there," 
said  the  little  child,  pointing  her  little,  white 
finger  upward,  and  making  the  dog  follow  with  his 
eyes,  "  do  you  think  that  pretty,  white  cloud  comes 
from  Willie's  home  ?  I  think  it  must,  it  is  so  white 
and  pure,  and  mamma  says,  every  thing  there  is 
pure  and  beautiful,  and  that  our  hearts  must  be 
very  pure,  too,  if  we  wish  to  live  near  the  throne 
of  our  Father  in  Heaven.  I  wonder  if  Willie  can 
see  me  now  where  he  lives  ?  Carlo,  we  love  dear 
Willie,  now,  don't  we  ?"  said  little  Emma,  the  big 
tears  chasing  each  other  down  her  cheeks,  "  though 
we  can't  see  him.  But  I  must  not  cry  any  more, 
mamma  says  it  is  wrong,  and  I  will  try  and  do  as 
she  bids ;  so  now,  Carlo,  let's  feed  Bunnies  once 
more,  and  then  for  a  race  home." 

Emma's  health  gradually  became  restored,  and 
all  could  trace  its  improvement  from  the  time  she 
first  saw  Willie's  dearly  loved  dog.  As  she  grew 
older,  and  time  softened  her  grief,  Carlo  was  still 
her  constant  companion,  and  he  was  never  satis- 
fied except  when  by  her  side,  and  would  still  listen 
with  apparent  intelligence  when,  beneath  the  tree 
20 


230  willie's  pet. 

at  the  river  side,  Emma  would  talk  with  a  loving 
voice,  but  without  tears,  of  her  darling  Willie,  and 
caress,  with  a  gentle  hand,  "Willie's  Pet." 


I  have  tried  very  hard  to  obtain  some  more 
stories  from  my  mother ;  but  shs  seems  averse  to 
writing,  at  present.  I  am  not  without  hopes,  how- 
ever, that  at  some  future  time  I  may  prevail  upon 
her  to  let  me  examine  the  contents  of  an  old 
writing  desk,  which  she  keeps  carefully  locked  ; 
and  whenever  I  get  sight  of  the  papers  in  that 
desk,  I  believe  I  shall  obtain  materials  for  an 
entertaining  and  useful  volume. 


LITTLE  CAUSES  PRODUCE  GREAT 
EFFECTS. 

In  my  uncle's  office  there  is  a  little  boy,  whose 
business  it  is  to  sweep,  dust,  make  fires  and  run 
on  errands.  He  seems  to  be  an  amiable,  well  disposed 
child,  but  evidently  neglected  by  his  parents,  who 
are  too  careless  about  his  morals. 

One  day,  it  came  out  incidentally  that  he  had 
appropriated  and  carried  away  a  certain  print  of 
trifling  value.  When  charged  with  the  offence,  he 
endeavored  to  excuse  himself  by  saying  that  he 
had  found  it  on  the  floor,  and  that  he  supposed  it 
was  of  no  value. 

"  That  does  not  mend  the  matter,"  said  my 
uncle,  "  you  knew  that  it  was  not  yours,  and  that 
you  had  no  right  to  carry  it  away.  Besides,  you 
knew  that  it  was  mine,  and  you  did  not  know  but 
that  I  valued  it  highly.  What  you  did  was  steal- 
ing— on  a  very  small  scale,  to  be  sure — but  not 

(231) 


232    LITTLE  CAUSES  PRODUCE  GREAT  EFFECTS. 

the  less  stealing.  I  call  it  by  its  right  name  in 
order  that  you  may  understand  the  dangerous 
tendency  of  excusing  such  acts  to  yourself.  Small 
crimes  lead  to  great  ones.  The  young  man  who 
was  sent  to  the  state  prison  last  week  for  robbing 
a  bank,  began  his  career  of  wickedness  with  very 
small  thefts,  and  went  on  very  gradually,  till  he 
has  gone  to  prison  for  seven  years,  and  inflicted  a 
terrible  disgrace  on  his  family.  His  mother  lies 
at  the  point  of  death  with  a  broken  heart." 

The  boy  began  to  cry. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  my  uncle,  "that  you  begin 
to  see  this  thing  in  its  true  light.  I  think  you 
will  be  more  careful  in  future.  Read  this  story," 
continued  my  uncle,  handing  him  the  volume  con- 
taining it;  "and  to-morrow  we  will  talk  this 
matter  over  again." 

The  story  was  called  "  'Tis  only  a  Penny." 


"  'TIS  ONLY  A  PENNY." 

"  'TiS  only  a  penny,"  said  Anthony  Archer  to 
himself;  and  he  put  it  into  his  pocket,  instead  of 
putting  it  into  his  master's  till.  The  penny  lay 
very  temptingly  in  his  way,  behind  a  cask  of  rice 
"which  the  boy  was  moving.  The  cask  of  rice  was 
under  the  counter  of  his  master's  shop.  How  the 
penny  got  there  Anthony  did  not  know.  It  might 
have  been  there  for  weeks,  or  months,  or  years. 
Perhaps  it  had ;  for  it  was  in  a  dark  corner,  and 
was  green  with  verdigris. 

"'  Losings,  seekings ;  findings,  keepings.'  'Tis 
only  a  penny :  if  it  were  a  sovereign,  now,  or  even 
a  shilling — but  'tis  only  a  penny."  And  in  it  went. 

Anthony  had  not  long  been  an  apprentice.  He 
was  "  the  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  was  a 
widow."  Not  a  rich  widow ;  but  a  respectable 
character  had  stood  her  and  her  two  children  in 
good  stead ;  and  Anthony  had  profited  by  it  so  far 
20*  (233) 


234  "  'tis  only  a  penny." 

as  to  get  a  start  in  life  beyond  his  mother's  expec- 
tations. And  thereupon  the  widow  Archer  was 
building  fond  hopes  for  the  future.  A  mother  may 
be  pardoned  for  indulging  in  a  day-dream  now  and 
then.  This  mother's  dream  was  of  a  pretty  little 
shop  in  one  of  the  streets  of  her  native  city ;  this 
same  shop  being  well  stocked  with  all  manner  of 
groceries,  and  having  the  name  "  Anthony  Archer" 
prominently  appearing  over  the  shop  window.  She 
dreamt  further  of  Anthony  himself,  grown  to  be 
a  fine  young  fellow,  standing  in  apron  and  sleeves 
behind  the  counter  from  morning  to  night,  packing 
up  tea  and  sugar,  coffee  and  spices,  or  dealing  out 
butter,  bacon,  and  cheese  till  his  arms  ached;  of 
money  jingling  on  the  counter  all  day  long ;  of  a 
neat  back  parlor,  or  a  front  room  overhead  may  be, 
as  a  work-room  for  Anthony's  sister,  the  milliner 
and  dressmaker  that  was  to  be ;  and  of  her  own 
self,  Anthony's  mother,  keeping  house  for  son  and 
daughter,  and  as  happy  as  the  days  would  be  long. 
This  was  one  of  Anthony  Archer's  mother's  day- 
dreams.    She  had  others. 

"  'Tis  only  a  penny,"  quoth  Anthony;  and  he 
slipped  the  stray  coin  into  his  pocket. 

Ah !  widow  Archer,  had  you  seen  that  simple 


"'  'tis  only  a  penny."  235 

but  indicative  action,  where  would  your  day-dream 
have  been  ?  or  what  would  it  have  been  ?  But 
the  widowed  mother  did  not  see  it.  None  saw  it 
but  He  whose  eyes  are  "  in  every  place,  beholding 
the  evil  and  the  good."  Anthony  was  safe  then. 
And  the  penny  was  safe,  in  his  pocket.  He  bought 
an  orange  with  it  the  next  day.  Very  sweet  and 
luscious  it  was,  no  doubt ;  for  even  "  stolen  waters 
are  sweet,  and  bread  eaten  in  secret  is  pleasant." 

Anthony  was  an  industrious  boy,  clever  and 
willing.  He  was  up  in  the  morning  early,  brushing 
about,  sweeping  the  shop,  putting  the  goods  in 
order.  No  need  ever  to  call  him  twice  out  of  his 
bed-room ;  no  need  to  call  him  at  all.  He  was, 
moreover,  a  good-natured,  good-tempered,  merry 
boy ;  the  customers  soon  got  to  like  Anthony  to 
serve  them,  he  was  so  quick,  and  handy,  and 
obliging.  But  there  was  "  the  dead  fly,"  as  Solo- 
mon says,  "  in  the  ointment" — the  secreted  penny  ; 
but  nobody  suspected  it  then. 

Anthony  became  a  youth  of  sixteen.  He  was 
kept  very  short  of  money.  His  mother  could  not 
help  that.  Nobody  could  help  it.  It  was  as  much 
as  his  mother  could  do  to  keep  him  respectably 
clothed ;  she  had  to  deny  herself  to  do  that.    And 


236  "  'tis  only  a  penny." 

then  there  was  Caroline  Archer,  Anthony's  sister, 
a  year  younger  than  himself,  who  had  just  been 
apprenticed  to  a  milliner  and  dressmaker;  the 
premium  paid  with  her  had  exhausted  all  the 
mother's  savings,  and  Caroline,  as  well  as  Anthony, 
had  to  be  clothed. 

But  the  poor  widow  held  on  cheerfully.  She 
left  off  eating  butter  to  her  bread ;  she  left  off 
drinking  sugar  in  her  tea ;  then  she  left  off  buying 
the  half-pennyworth  of  milk  every  day ;  then  she 
left  off  drinking  tea  altogether ;  she  left  off  dealing 
with  the  butcher,  she  could  do  very  well  without 
meat,  she  said  to  herself;  but  she  didn't  leave  off 
wearing  old  garments,  and  mending  them  over  and 
over  again,  till  they  would  not  bear  another  stitch, 
though  she  took  care  never  to  look  shabby.  What 
did  it  matter  to  her,  or  to  any  body  else,  what  she 
wore,  or  what  she  did  not  wear — what  she  ate  and 
drank,  or  what  she  did  not  eat  and  drink?  No 
body  need  know  how  she  pinched  herself  for  her 
boy's  sake,  and  her  girl's. 

And  she  did  not  leave  off  day-dreaming  either, 
this  widowed  mother.  Every  day  brought  her 
nearer  to  the  consummation  of  her  wishes — the 
pretty  little  shop,  with  all  its  accompaniments.    It 


"  'tis  only  a  penny."  237 

would  be  years  and  years,  certainly,  before  An- 
thony would  be  out  of  his  time ;  and  years  added 
to  those  before  he  would  have  earned  money 
enough,  and  saved  money  enough  out  of  his  earn- 
ings, to  add  to  the  hundred  pounds  that  his  grand- 
father had  left  him,  and  that  would  come  to  him 
when  he  was  of  age,  to  set  up  in  business  for  him- 
self, in  a  shop  of  his  own.  But  the  time  would 
come,  no  doubt  of  it — in  the  dream  :  no  more 
doubt  of  it  than  that  Caroline  would,  by  that  time, 
have  set  up  in  business  for  herself,  and  attracted 
the  custom  of  ladies  innumerable,  by  her  taste  and 
skill  and  good  conduct. 

But  the  youth  Anthony  had  not  much  money  to 
spend,  and  he  had  a  growing  inclination  to  spend 
more  than  he  had  got.  A  very  common  case,  we 
believe. 

As  we  have  before  said,  the  stain  of  the  stolen 
penny  had  fastened  on  Anthony  Archer's  heart. 
The  "'Tis  only  a  penny"  had  become  "  'Tis  only 
a  shilling."  No  body  knew  it ;  no  body  suspected 
it ;  but  so  it  was.  Anthony  had,  at  first,  no  settled 
intention  of  being  dishonest.  When  he  adroitly 
slipped  aside  the  shilling,  and  afterwards  conveyed 
it  to  his  trousers  pocket,  he  only  thought  that  his 


238  "  'tis  only  a  penny." 

master  could  very  well  spare  the  shilling,  and  that 
he  himself  very  much  wanted  it.  He  meant,  as 
far  as  he  knew  his  own  meaning,  to  stop  short  at 
that  shilling,  and  at  every  successive  shilling. 
More  than  this,  perhaps,  he  meant  to  pay  them 
all  back  again  some  day,  when  his  apprenticeship 
was  out,  and  he  should  be  receiving  a  salary. 

"  'Tis  only  a  shilling  !"  said  Anthony  Archer  ; 
"  and  it  is  only  borrowing  it !" 

Anthony  was  prudent,  nevertheless  :  that  is,  he 
was  prudent  in  a  small  way.  Understand  this, 
reader,  that  no  man,  woman,  or  child,  who  lives  in 
the  practice  of  any  unrighteousness  towards  God, 
is  any  thing  but  immensely  prudent.  They  who 
have  become  reconciled  to  God  in  his  own  way  of 
reconciliation,  who  have  repented  of  sin,  fled  to 
Christ  for  salvation,  and  who,  being  born  of  his 
Holy  Spirit,  keep  God's  commandments  from  a 
principle  of  love — these  only  are  the  prudent  ones. 

But  with  his  terrible  imprudence,  Anthony 
mixed  up  a  small  flavoring  of  prudence.  By  little 
and  little,  step  by  step,  he  got  to  persuade  him- 
self to  think  lightly  of  his  unfaithfulness  and  dis- 
honesty. But  the  money  that  he  thus  obtained  he 
did  not  spend  wantonly.     Now  and  then,  perhaps, 


"  'tis  only  a  penny."  239 

he  surprised  his  mother  by  some  little  youthful 
extravagance  for  which  his  very  small  means  would, 
she  thought,  have  been  inadequate.  But  such  an 
idea  as  that  he  had  stolen,  or  would  steal  even  a 
penny,  never  entered  her  mind. 

Anthony's  master,  again — an  easy,  unsuspicious 
little  tradesman,  in  comfortable  circumstances,  and 
conducting  his  small  business  in  an  old-fashioned, 
slovenly  sort  of  way — he  could  see  nothing  in  his 
apprentice — "  the  best  apprentice  he  had  ever  had, 
the  most  industrious,  and  the  most  obliging" — that 
savored  of  dishonesty. 

Anthony  knew  all  this  of  his  master  and  his 
mother,  and  the  opinion  they  both  held  respecting 
him :  and  he  had  the  prudence  to  act  so  as  not  to 
forfeit  that  opinion.  He  practised  self-denial  so 
far  as  not  to  seem  to  have  more  money  at  his  com- 
mand than  he  ought  to  have ;  or  if  he  indulged 
himself,  he  did  it  with  systematic  secresy.  Never- 
theless, shilling  after  shilling  was  jerked  out  of  the 
till,  and  found  its  way,  by  a  round-about  process, 
into  Anthony's  pocket.  "'Tis  only  a  shilling  and 
will  never  be  missed,"  said  Anthony  to  himself. 

The  youth  of  sixteen  and  seventeen  is  bordering 
upon  manhood  at  twenty.     And  at  twenty,  An- 


240  "  'tis  only  a  penny. 

thony  thought  himself  a  man ;  or,  if  not,  his 
mother  and  his  sister  thought  so  for  him. 

Caroline,  just  out  of  an  apprenticeship  shorter 
than  her  brother's,  was  beginning  to  fulfil  her 
mother's  day-dream.  She  had  skill  and  taste  and 
industry,  was  earning  her  own  living  as  journey- 
woman  and  shopwoman  in  the  "first  concern"  in 
her  native  place ;  and  in  two  or  three  years  would 
begin  business  on  her  own  account.  She  was  very 
proud  of  her  brother,  and  their  mother  was  proud 
of  them  both. 

The  shillings  had  become  half-crowns  now ;  or, 
if  still  shillings,  they  were  oftener  abstracted.  By 
this  time  Anthony's  conscience  had  become  almost 
silent.  He  had  no  occasion  to  lull  it  to  rest  with 
a  "  'Tis  only."     But  still  no  one  suspected  him. 

Another  year,  and  young  Archer  was  out  of  his 
apprenticeship.  His  employer,  Mr.  Hacket,  did 
not  wish  to  part  with  so  useful  a  servant,  and 
offered  a  salary  larger  than  Anthony  could  have 
got  elsewhere ;  and  he  agreed  to  the  proposal.  And 
will  he  not  begin  now  to  pay  back,  secretly,  the 
pence,  shillings,  and  pounds  of  which,  during  the 
seven  years  past,  he  had  robbed  his  master's  till  ? 
Do  you  think  he  will,  young  reader  ?     Have  you 


"  'tis  only  a  penny."  241 

never  read  or  heard  such  words  as,  "  The  heart 
is  deceitful  above  all  things,  and  desperately 
wicked  ?"  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  "be  hardened 
through  the  deceitfulness  of  sin."  Anthony  Archer 
was. 

Three  more  years  passed  away;  and  the  day- 
dream of  Anthony's  mother  seemed  to  be  near 
upon  its  fulfilment,  in  part  at  least.  Caroline,  for 
instance,  had  set  up  in  business  for  herself,  in  a 
small  way,  and  was  justifying  her  mother's  expec- 
tations of  her  taste  and  skill  and  steadiness  insur- 
ing patronage.  For  the  present,  the  business  was 
carried  on  in  Mrs.  Archer's  small  house,  and  pro- 
duced profit  enough  to  afford  housekeeping  on  a 
more  liberal  scale  than  that  to  which  the  widowed 
mother,  when  alone,  had  unmurmuringly  submitted 
for  her  children's  sake.  Anthony  was  off  his 
mother's  hands,  too ;  and,  like  a  dutiful,  affection- 
ate son,  contributed  something  to  her  comfort. 
There  was  no  need,  now,  for  her  to  patch  and  darn 
till  one  garment  after  another  would  bear  patching 
and  darning  no  longer. 

There  was  one  particular,  however,  in  which  the 
mother's  day-dream  became  somewhat  obscured. 
She  had  never  calculated  upon  Anthony's  "  falling 
21 


242  "  'tis  only  a  penny." 

in  love."  She  had  never  thought  of  that.  But 
he  did  it ;  that  is  to  say,  he  formed  an  en- 
gagement with  Miss  Hacket,  his  employer's  only 
daughter,  and  his  housekeeper,  for  he  was  a 
widower. 

"Of  course,"  thought  Mrs.  Archer  to  herself, 
when  she  found  this  out,  "that  will  put  a  stop  to 
my  keeping  Anthony's  house  for  him  when  he  has 
one,  and  to  Caroline's  living  with  us ;  but  no 
matter ;  it  will  help  him  all  the  sooner  to  have  a 
house  and  business  of  his  own,  or  to  be  taken  into 
partnership,  perhaps,  with  Mr.  Hacket  himself, 
who  can  tell?"  And  then  the  widow  went  on 
dreaming  about  that.  Her  dream  had  been  dis- 
turbed, but  her  rest  was  not  broken ;  and  the  frag- 
ments of  her  dreams  re-assorted  themselves  with 
wonderful  facility  into  a  prettier  picture  than 
before. 

Dream  on,  fond  mother ;  dream  on,  while  you 
may.  A  rough  awakening  is  at  hand.  Mr.  Hacket, 
the  easy,  unsuspecting  grocer,  had  readily  given 
his  consent  to  the  connexion  young  Archer  had 
formed  with  his  daughter.  He  looked  upon  An- 
thony as  a  steady  young  fellow,  with  a  good  tact 
for  business,  and  likely  to  succeed.    He  liked  him, 


"  'tis  only  a  penny,"  243 

too,  and  had  liked  him  all  the  way  up  from  boy- 
hood. So  "the  course  of  love"  in  this  case  did 
run  smooth,  in  spite  of  the  old  saying. 

And  now,  perhaps,  Anthony  began  to  find  out 
that,  after  all,  honesty  would  have  been  good 
policy,  as  regarded  his  own  position  and  prospects  ; 
that,  in  fact,  his  "pleasant  vice"  had  become  a 
scourge  for  his  own  back :  for,  unsuspected  as  he 
yet  was,  the  consequences  of  his  guilt  began  to 
recoil  upon  himself. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,  Anthony,"  said  Mr. 
Hacket  one  day,  when  they  were  talking  about 
future  plans — "I  don't  want  to  put  off  your  mar- 
riage ;  but,  somehow,  I  have  not  much  money  to 
spare ;  and  beyond  your  hundred  pounds,  you,  of 
course  have  none." 

Anthony  did  not  speak,  and  Hacket  went  on. 

"  I  never  had  so  much  difficulty  in  keeping  my 
accounts  straight  and  well  paid  up ;  and  the  fact 
is,  I  don't  think  I  can  spare  any  thing  out  of  my 
business,  to  set  you  and  Kate  up  with." 

"It  would  not  want  much,  sir,  to  begin  in  a 
small  way,"  the  young  man  ventured  to  say. 

But  Mr.  Hacket  would  not  listen  to  this.  "  You 
young  fellows,"  said  he,  good  humoredly,  "think 


244  "'tis  only  a  penny." 

you  are  going  to  drive  every  thing  before  you.  If 
you  can  but  get  married,  that's  all  you  want ;  you 
can  live  upon  love  afterwards.  But  it  won't  do ; 
you  can't  go  into  business  without  capital ;  and 
where  that  is  to  come  from  is  the  question  now.  I 
can't  think  how  it  is,"  he  continued,  rubbing  his 
head  like  a  man  perplexed  ;  "  I  used  to  think  I 
should  have  five  hundred  pounds  to  give  the  girl 
when  she  married,  if  'twas  according  to  my  liking ; 
but  I  can't  do  it,  Anthony  ;  and  without  something 
like  that,  you  can't  begin  business." 

Anthony  knew  where  to  put  his  hand  upon  two 
or  three  hundred  pounds  at  once ;  but  to  have 
tried  to  have  said  so  would  have  choked  him. 

"We'll  see  about  it,  Anthony.  We'll  take 
stock,  my  boy,  and  then  see  what's  to  be  done.  I 
ought  to  be  pretty  well  off,"  he  continued,  speaking 
more  to  himself  than  to  young  Archer ;  "  but, 
somehow,  business  doesn't  seem  to  be  so  profitable 
as  it  ought  to  be.     I  can't  make  it  out." 

Anthony  was  glad  to  get  away,  after  that. 
Hardened  as  he  was,  he  could  not  stand  it ;  and 
on  the  evening  of  that  same  day,  as  it  afterwards 
proved,  he  paid  his  mother  and  sister  a  visit. 

"Here,  Carry,"  he  said  to  his  sister,  as  they 


"  'tis  only  a  penny."  245 

were  by  themselves,  "I  wish  you  would  take  care 
of  this  for  me;"  and  he  put  into  her  hand  a  small 
packet,  closely  sealed. 

"What  is  it  Anthony?" 

"  Nothing  but  a  book.  I — I  don't  want  it  opened 
till  the  day  I  am  married.  I'll  ask  you  for  it  then." 

And  Caroline,  thinking  it  to  be  perhaps  a  wed- 
ding gift  intended  for  Kate,  or  it  might  be  for 
Anthony's  mother  or  herself,  put  the  book  or  the 
packet  in  one  of  her  drawers,  locked  it  up,  and 
thought  no  more  about  it  until — until  her  brother 
was  for  ever  lost  to  her,  and  she  and  her  mother 
were  broken  hearted  and  desolate. 

I  have  said  that  Mr.  Hacket  was  a  slovenly 
tradesman.  He  rarely  took  stock ;  it  was  such  a 
disagreeable  job,  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
putting  it  off  from  time  to  time.  But  now  he  set 
about  it. 

"I  can't  make  it  out,"  he  said  again,  when  all 
was  over,  and  his  books  were  balanced;  "I  am 
poorer  than  I  thought  I  was  ;"  and  he  looked  the 
picture  of  perplexity  as  he  sat  smoking  his  pipe  by 
the  fire,  with  Anthony  and  Kate  as  his  companions. 

"Perhaps,  sir,"  faltered  out  Anthony,   "there 
may  be  a  mistake  in  the  books." 
21* 


246  "  'tis  only  a  penny." 

"Go  over  them  yourself,  then,  Anthony." 

The  young  man  pretended  to  do  so ;  but  while 
his  eyes  were  wandering  over  volumes  of  figures, 
his  thoughts  were  turned  inwards.  "  What  a  fool 
I  have  been  !  What  a  labyrinth  I  have  brought 
myself  into  for  nothing!"  We  may  well  imagine 
that  these  were  his  reflections. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Anthony,"  said  Mr.  Hacket, 
at  last,  as  though  an  idea  had  entered  his  head ; 
"you  see  the  business  is  no  great  things — not  so 
profitable  as  it  ought  to  be ;  but  it  may  be  made 
better,  I  think ;  and  if  you  and  Kate  like  to  marry 
out  of  hand,  and  on  the  strength  of  it,  I'll  take 
you  in  as  partner,  and  we'll  rub  on  together  for  a 
while." 

What  a  relief  was  this  to  the  guilty  young  man  ! 
It  did  not  require  many  words  to  conclude  the 
bargain ;  and  that  evening  all  preliminaries  were 
settled — time  and  every  thing. 

But  while  every  thing  seemed  bright  and  pro- 
mising to  the  infatuated  sinner  ;  while  poor  Kate 
was  thinking  of  bridal  dresses  and  wedding  favors  ; 
while  Caroline  Archer  was  rejoicing  at  the  thought 
of  her  brother's  prospects  ;  and  while  their  mother, 
now  that  her  long  day-dream  seemed  ready  to  be 


"  'tis  only  a  penny."  247 

accomplished  —  was  flattering  herself  with  other 
bright  visions  of  the  future ;  a  storm  was  gathering 
and  ready  to  burst  upon  them  all. 

As  not  material,  hitherto,  to  our  story,  nothing 
has  been  said  of  "  Old  Ambrose,"  a  poor  half-witted 
man  who  had,  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
filled  the  position  of  porter,  shoe-cleaner,  gardener, 
and  general  jobber,  in  Mr.  Hacket's  small  esta- 
blishment. He  must  come  forward  now.  A  little 
hump-backed,  monkey-faced,  club-footed,  and  sad- 
ly-distorted piece  of  humanity  was  old  Ambrose. 
Ignorant,  in  many  things,  as  an  infant  he  was,  too ; 
and,  like  an  infant,  he  could  not  speak  plain.  He 
loved  his  master,  however,  who  had,  in  kindness 
and  charity,  first  employed  him ;  and  though  his 
wages  were  small,  his  wants  were  as  limited  as  his 
knowledge. 

One  day — it  might  be  a  week  after  the  summing 
up  of  the  stock-taking  accounts — young  Archer 
went  out  for  the  day  on  business,  and  Kate  "minded 
the  shop,"  while  her  father  was  superintending  old 
Ambrose,  whom  he  had  set  to  knock  up  some  old 
hogsheads,  and  with  the  staves  to  construct  a  new 
pig-sty.  For  awhile  the  work  went  on  in  silence. 
At  last,  the  old  porter  looked  up  in  his  master's 


248  "  'tis  only  a  penny." 

face ;  "  Miss  Kate  isn't-a-be  Miss  Kate  much  longer. 
Her-a-be  Mrs.  Archer  ?  eh  ?  Old  Ambrose  know 
all  about  it." 

Mr.  Hacket  nodded  and  smiled. 

"  Miss  Katy  lucky ;  marry  rich  man — gentle- 
man.    Old  Ambrose  know." 

"  Not  so  very  rich,  Ambrose  ;  but  that's  neither 
here  nor  there." 

"  Plenty  of  money,  he,  Mr.  Archer,  master.  Ha  ! 
ha  !     Old  Ambrose  know." 

"Not  too  much  of  that,  Ambrose,"  returned  Mr. 
Hacket,  who  had  no  objection,  on  the  score  of  dig- 
nity, to  chat  with  the  old  porter;  "not  too  much 
money,  Ambrose;  but  a  good,  clever  lad." 

"  Very  clever,  he,  Mr.  Archer :  very  good  na- 
tured,  too.  Rich,  too ;  plenty  of  money — a  great 
bag.     Miss  Katy  lucky.     Old  Ambrose  know." 

"Nonsense,  Ambrose;  you  know  nothing  at  all 
about  it." 

"What  say  you,  master?"  said  the  old  man, 
suddenly  standing  as  upright  as  he  could,  which 
was  not  very,  and  looking  provokingly  knowing. 
"  Old  Ambrose  know,"  he  added  as  usual. 

"  I  don't  lay  wagers,  Ambrose,  you  know ;  but 
I'll  lay  a  farthing  cake,  and  have  the  first  bite,  that 


" 'TIS  ONLY  A  PENNY."  249 

you  know  nothing  of  what  you  are  now  talking 
about." 

"Done,  master!"  shouted  the  poor  idiot,  with 
sudden  alacrity.  "  Come  along  with  me.  Old  Am- 
brose know."  He  threw  down  his  hammer,  and 
led  the  way  to  a  corner  of  the  warehouse  in  which 
the  conversation  had  been  carried  on. 

It  was  a  crafty  hiding-place.  None  but  a  half- 
witted being,  with  the  prying  faculty  of  a  magpie, 
or  a  police  officer,  would  ever  have  discovered  it. 
Shillings,  half-crowns,  crowns,  half-sovereigns,  and 
sovereigns — there  they  were. 

The  idiot  chuckled  out,  "  There  !  Old  Ambrose 
know !  Mr.  Archer  rich  man.  Miss  Katy  lucky. 
Old  Ambrose  know!" 

But  it  was  lost  upon  the  bewildered  grocer.  Ut- 
tering a  prayer  that  his  wits  might  be  preserved,  he 
turned  to  Old  Ambrose  :  "  What  do  you  know  about 
this,  old  man  ?" 

Terrified  by  this  unexpected  change  in  his  mas- 
ter's tone  and  aspect,  Old  Ambrose  explained,  as 
well  as  he  was  able,  how  he  had  a  month  or  two 
before  found  out  this  hoard,  ingeniously  as  it  had 
been  hidden,  that  he  had  watched,  and  more  than 
once  had  seen  Mr.  Archer  resorting  to  it. 


250  "  'tis  only  a  penny." 

"  But  don't  tell  of  me,  master,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  Mr.  Archer,  he-a-be  mad  with  me,  mayhap.  Rich 
man,  he,  master.  Miss  Kate  lucky.  Old  Ambrose 
know."  A  blank  look  then  came  over  his  counte- 
nance. "  Another  nest  some-a-where,  master,  Old 
Ambrose  don't  know." 

"Another  !"  gasped  the  poor  grocer,  holding  in 
his  trembling  hand  the  recovered  treasure.  "  Where  ? 
and  what  do  you  mean  !" 

There  was  more  than  that  a  month  ago,  old  Am- 
brose said :  another  bag. 

I  need  not  describe — I  could  not,  if  I  were  to 
try — the  distress  of  mind  which  now  fell  upon  Mr. 
Hacket,  on  making  these  discoveries. 

"  Say  nothing  about  it,  Ambrose,"  he  gasped; 
and  hastening  to  his  chamber,  he  shut  himself  in. 
He  tried  to  count  the  money,  but  he  couldn't,  and 
he  threw  himself  on  his  knees  in  an  agony  of  deep 
grief. 

An  hour  or  two  later,  he  was  in  close  conference 
with  his  daughter. 

"  Kate,"  he  said  kindly,  but  peremptorily,  "  An- 
thony shall  have  fair  play ;  but  if  it  is  as  I  fear  it 
must  be,  there  must  be  no  marrying." 

A  few  hours  later  and  Anthony  returned.     It 


"  'tis  only  a  penny.  '  251 

was  early  in  the  evening,  but  the  shop  was  closed. 
He  went  round  to  the  back  door,  and  entered  the 
parlor  that  way.     Mr.  Hacket  was  alone. 

"My  dear  sir,  is  any  thing  the  matter?"  asked 
Anthony.  He  might  well  ask — such  a  change  had 
a  few  hours'  agitation  of  mind  wrought  in  the  usu- 
ally calm  and  undisturbed  old  man. 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  of  this,  Anthony !" 
hoarsely  whispered  the  grocer ;  and  he  uncovered  a 
heap  of  money  on  the  table,  and  held  up  a  thick 
canvass  bag. 

No  need  for  another  accuser.  Pale  as  a  corpse, 
the  unhappy  man  staggered  to  the  door,  and  tried 
to  speak,  but  his  bloodless  lips  refused  their  office, 
and  his  tongue  seemed  to  cling  to  the  roof  of  his 
mouth.     He  opened  the  door. 

"  Stop,  stop  !"  exclaimed  his  employer,  not  un- 
willing, even  then,  to  be  deceived,  if  he  could  be — 
"Stop,  Anthony,  stop  !" 

But  Anthony  was  gone. 

He  never  came  back  again  ;  but  a  week  or  two 
afterwards  came  a  letter  from  him,  written  appa- 
rently in  an  agony  of  remorse  and  despair,  which 
put  the  question  of  his  delinquency  beyond  a  doubt. 
The  first  act  of  his  dishonesty,  he  declared,  was 


252  "  'ti^  only  a  penny." 

zohen  he  pocketed  a  penny  which  he  found  behind 
a  tub  of  rice  under  the  counter.  There  was  a  packet, 
lie  said,  in  his  sister's  keeping,  containing  some 
bank  notes,  between  the  leaves  of  a  book ;  but  she 
did  not  know  what  it  contained.  That,  and  the 
hoard  which  Mr.  Hacket  had  found,  was  the  bulk 
of  what  he  had  taken ;  and,  if  not  quite  all,  there 
was  the  hundred  pounds,  his  grandfather's  legacy, 
which  was  in  his  mother's  hands — that  would  more 
than  cover  it.  There  was  a  scrap  of  writing,  almost 
illegible,  inclosed  for  Kate.     That  was  alL 


A  MAN  IS  A  MAN. 

One  day  I  was  guilty  of  an  action,  which,  to  say 
the  least,  was  in  very  bad  taste.  An  old  man,  in 
a  very  poor  but  not  dirty  dress,  came  into  the  office 
with  a  basket  full  of  oranges,  which  he  was  retail- 
ing about  the  village.  When  he  desired  me  to  pur- 
chase some,  I  answered  him  rather  roughly  and 
slightingly,  and  turned  again  to  my  books ;  not, 
however,  without  observing  that  my  uncle  raised 
his  eye-brows  a  little,  at  my  want  of  good  manners. 

When  the  old  orange  pedlar  had  gone  out,  mv 
uncle  turned  round  and  looking  me  full  in  the  face, 
said,  "  My  boy,  you  appear  to  have  forgotten  an 
old  maxim  handed  down  in  your  family,  time  out 
of  mind.  It  is  this  :  '  A  man  is  a  man.''  Every 
person,  however  humble  his  station  or  calling,  is 
entitled  to  your  respect  as  a  man,  and  so  long  as 
you  are  ignorant  of  his  having  forfeited  all  claim 
to  consideration,  by  criminal  or  scandalously  im- 
22  (253) 


254  A  MAN  IS  A  MAN. 

moral  behaviour,  you  should  treat  him  with  polite- 
ness, and  if  he  is  old,  with  marked  respect.  Age 
itself  has  a  perpetual  claim  to  reverence.  Did  you 
never  hear  the  story  of  the  Russian  Princess.  She 
was  on  some  pleasure  excursion,  with  a  gay  party 
in  France,  I  think,  or  Germany,  when  they  fell  in 
with  an  old  man,  in  a  humble  walk  in  life,  a  rustic, 
coarsely  attired,  and  wearing  a  long  beard.  An 
impertinent  lordling  treated  the  old  man  contemp- 
tuously, laughed  at  his  beard,  and  offered  a  round 
sum  in  gold  to  any  lady  of  the  party  who  would  kiss 
the  veteran. 

"  Instantly  the  fair  Russian,  who,  by  the  way  was 
young  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  in 
Europe,  stepped  forward  and  accepted  the  challenge. 
The  purse  of  gold  was  deposited  on  a  plate,  which, 
after  kissing  the  old  man,  the  princess  gracefully 
presented  to  him,  saying,  '  Take  this,  my  good 
friend,  as  a  testimonial  that  the  daughters  of  Rus- 
sia are  taught  to  respect  old  age.' 

"But  it  is  not  the  old  only  that  are  entitled  to 
respect.  If  I  remember  rightly,  an  Apostle  says, 
'Honor  all  men.'  Consider  that  every  man  is 
entitled  to  politeness,  as  a  man,  an  immortal  be- 
ing, destined  to  exist  for  ever,  with  yourself  in  the 


A  MAN  IS  A  MAN".  255 

world  of  spirits  to  which,  we  are  all  hastening,  and 
where  we  shall  be  classed,  not  according  to  the 
clothes  we  have  worn,  but  the  lives  we  have  led  on 
earth." 

The  reader  may  suppose  that  I  am  not  likely  to 
forget  this  lesson  in  a  hurry.  My  uncle  added  a 
good  deal  more  on  the  good  policy  as  well  as  the 
duty  of  politeness ;  and  he  enforced  this  last  branch 
of  the  subject  by  referring  me  to  the  following 
story. 


HOW  THE  FISHMONGER  WAS  TAUGHT 
CIVILITY. 

My  uncle  is  a  respectable  fishmonger  in  London. 
We  all  think  he  has  made  his  fortune,  and  must  be 
near  seventy.  Old  Stilton,  our  neighbor,  who  was 
not  very  wise  in  his  youth,  they  say,  often  wonders 
how  he  can  attend  to  his  business  at  such  an  age  ; 
but,  having  led  a  temperate  life,  my  uncle  is  still 
a  robust,  active  man,  and  like  to  keep  the  old  shop. 
It  is  not,  however,  for  the  love  of  gain  he  does  so. 
My  uncle's  trust  has  been  long  set  in  the  wealth 
that  cannot  waste  or  "flee  away  ;"  but  forty  years 
of  honest  and  successful  trade  have  made  both  place 
and  habit  familiar  ;  besides,  his  business  enables 
him  to  bestow  more  on  needy  friends,  missionary 
funds,  and  charitable  institutions.  I  have  heard  my 
uncle  say  as  much,  by  way  of  explanation,  to  old 
Stilton ;  but  he  wonders  on,  and  doubtless  will  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter. 

It  is  in  my  remembrance  that  our  whole  family 
(256) 


HOW  THE  FISHMONGER  WAS  TAUGHT  CIVILITY.  257 

had  once  a  wondering  point  of  their  own  concern- 
ing my  uncle.  He  had  helped  my  mother  when 
suddenly  left  a  widow,  apprenticed  my  three  bro- 
thers at  creditable  houses,  and  took  me  into  the 
shop  ;  but  none  of  us  could  ever  make  out  why  a 
man  so  old  and  rich  should  serve  the  most  shabby- 
looking  stranger,  who  bought  a  sole  or  a  mackerel, 
with  the  same  respectful  civility  he  showed  his  best 
customers.  This  problem  puzzled  me  in  particular, 
because  it  caught  my  attention  most  frequently  in 
the  shop ;  and  once,  when  I  had  in  a  manner 
gained  my  uncle's  confidence,  and  was  helping  him 
to  take  stock — which  he  did  regularly  once  a  year, 
in  a  quiet,  old-fashioned  way — we  had  some  talk  on 
the  subject,  which  he  finished  with  the  following 
story. 

When  I  was  a  boy — that  is,  more  than  fifty  years 
ago — nobody  had  a  greater  notion  of  good  manners ; 
my  ambition  was  to  be  quite  genteel  and  polite ; 
but,  unhappily,  these  good  intentions  never  ex- 
tended beyond  my  superiors,  and  they  were  known 
to  me  only  by  fine  clothes  or  a  grand  equipage.  It 
is  to  be  feared  that,  in  this  great  and  wealthy  Lon- 
don, there  is  still  a  strong  inclination  to  such  esti- 
mates ;  and  though  a  worthy  man  in  weightier 
22* 


258  HOW  THE  FISHMONGER  WAS  TAUGHT  CIVILITY. 

matters,  it  was  among  the  weak  points  of  Mr. 
Sampson  Huggins,  with  whom  I  served  my  appren- 
ticeship in  Covent-garden.  Mr.  Sampson  Huggins 
was  the  very  model  of  a  fishmonger.  He  knew  to  an 
hour  how  long  a  cod  had  been  in  pickle,  or  a  salmon 
out  of  the  water  ;  as  for  crabs  and  eels,  no  man 
understood  them  better  ;  and  in  ice-packing  I  never 
saw  his  equal.  Moreover,  Mr.  Sampson  was  proud 
of  his  business.  He  pretended,  indeed,  to  have 
had  an  ancestor  who  had  kept  shop  in  Billingsgate 
when  it  was  in  its  early  days,  and  who  for  aught 
that  could  be  proved  to  the  contrary,  might  have 
supplied  Whittington,  Lord  mayor  of  London,  with 
pieces  of  whale  for  lent  dinners,  and  sent  eels  every 
Saturday  to  his  celebrated  cat ;  at  all  events,  the 
fishmonger's  company — so  he  would  assure  his 
friends — had  never  since  wanted  one  of  his  family, 
and  he  himself  was  the  third  of  his  name  in 
Convent-garden. 

Touching  the  certainty  of  these  particulars  I 
know  nothing ;  but  none  of  Mr.  Sampson's  prede- 
cessors, even  he  who  furnished  the  whale,  might 
have  been  ashamed  of  him.  To  me  he  was  a  just 
and  kindly  master,  though  somewhat  exacting  and 
consequential.     His  premises  were  kept  like  a  man 


HOW  THE  FISHMONGER  WAS  TAUGHT  CIVILITY.  259 

of  war.  There  was  a  place  for  every  thing,  and 
every  thing  in  its  place.  Better  oysters,  turbot, 
or  turtle  could  be  found  nowhere  in  London  ;  at 
least  the  west-end  gentry  and  rich  city  people 
thought  so.  I  have  seen  aldermen's  ladies  and 
French  cooks  at  the  shop  by  half  dozens,  in  a 
morning  of  a  dinner-giving  season,  looking  out  for 
choice  fish ;  and,  next  to  this  superior  goods,  my 
master's  glory  was  set  on  the  distinguished  cus- 
tomers who  bought  them. 

My  belief  is,  that  the  same  amount  of  profit  com- 
ing from  inferior  rank  or  riches  would  not  have  had 
half  such  value  in  his  eyes.  The  feeling  is  not  so 
uncommon  as  you  may  think  it.  Mr.  Sampson's 
gentility  rose  in  proportion  to  that  of  the  families 
he  supplied,  and  the  grandeur  of  every  house  to 
which  he  sent  a  turtle  seemed  somehow  or  other 
reflected  on  himself.  My  master's  great  customers 
were,  therefore,  much  talked  of.  There  was  sel- 
dom a  great  dinner  given  at  any  of  their  houses, 
throughout  the  season,  that  he  could  not  describe, 
from  soup  to  wines  ;  but  the  chief  subject  of  his 
discourse  and  reverence  was  Sir  Joseph  Banks. 

However  scholars  may  hold  Sir  Joseph  now,  he 
had  a  great  name  for  learning  in  those  days,  when 


260  HOW  THE  FISHMONGER  WAS  TAUGHT  CIVILITY. 

it  was  scarcer  among  us  than  at  present.  I  have 
heard,  too,  that  he  was  a  worthy  gentleman,  and 
the  private  friend  of  our  good  king,  George  the 
Third.|  But  it  was  none  of  these  distinctions  that 
called  forth  Mr.  Sampson's  respect.  It  was  founded 
on  far  different  considerations.  Sir  Joseph  kept  a 
large  retinue  and  a  fine  carriage.  He  bought  ex- 
pensive fish,  was  particular  in  •selecting  them  at  my 
master's  shop,  and  gave  splendid  dinners  to  the 
Royal  Society. 

Being  then  young  and  foolish,  I  took  strongly  to 
Mr.  Sampson's  way  of  thinking  ;  in  spite,  too,  of 
the  admonitions  of  my  good  mother,  who,  while  she 
encouraged  a  proper  respect  for  my  superiors  in 
station,  as  a  rational  and  Christian  duty,  could  not 
help  perceiving  the  silly  and  slavish  reverence  for 
mere  luxury  and  display  which  grew  upon  my  mind. 
Many  a  time  did  that  wise  and  kindly  mother  re- 
mind me  that  splendor  often  walked  with  sin,  while 
piety  was  clad  in  poor  apparel ;  that  sometimes 
rich  men  preferred  plainness,  and  even  at  the  west- 
end  the  grandest  was  not  always  the  greatest. 
These  sensible  remarks  made  small  impressions 
on  me  ;  boyish  conceit  suggested  that  my  poor 
mother,  who  had  worked  so  hard  for  us  five  (I  mean 


HOW  THE  FISHMONGER  WAS  TAUGHT  CIVILITY.    261 

myself  and  four  sisters,)  ever  since  our  father  was 
lost  at  sea,  when  the  youngest  girl  was  a  baby, 
knew  nothing  of  the  great  world.  Besides,  Mr. 
Sampson's  example  was  before  me.  To  be  candid,  I 
rather  surpassed  him  in  my  admiration  of  wealth 
and  style,  having  latterly  advanced  so  far  as  not 
to  care  for  serving  common  people  on  any  terms. 
My  great  desire,  however,  was  to  see  Sir  Joseph 
Banks.  I  had  been  almost  a  year  apprenticed,  and 
had  heard  an  immensity  concerning  his  carriage 
and  house  in  Soho-square  ;  for,  seeing  that  I  had 
a  genteel  taste,  my  master  favored  me  with  par- 
ticular details  ;  but  as  the  gentlemen  had  been  out 
of  town,  making  a  collection  of  rare  flies,  I  had  no 
opportunity  of  seeing  him  all  that  time. 

The  premises  which  Mr.  Sampson  Huggins  oc- 
cupied in  Covent-garden  consisted  of  a  shop  and 
and  back  parlor,  with  cellars  below  for  storeage. 
His  family  lived  in  a  country  house  near  Hackney, 
though  few  fishmongers  put  up  so  high  in  my  ap- 
prentice days.  Omnibuses  were  not  invented  then, 
cabs  hadn't  been  heard  of  in  London,  and  the 
hackney-coaches  being  rather  expensive,  Mr.  Samp- 
son saved  money  by  sleeping  in  an  old  fashioned 
cupboard  he  had  kept  in  the  said  back  parlor  for 


262   HOW  THE  FISHMONGER  WAS  TAUGHT  CIVILITY. 

that  purpose,  and  going  home  only  late  on  Satur- 
day evenings,  during  what  is  called  the  season. 
He  was  sure  to  Jbe  back  early  on  Monday  morning ; 
for  no  man  was  more  attentive  to  business,  on  which 
account  but  few  helpers  were  kept  about  the  shop ; 
a  salesman,  the  senior  apprentice,  William  Jones, 
myself,  and  two  porters,  being  his  entire  retinue. 

On  Wednesday,  in  the  beginning  of  May,  the  sales- 
man was  sick,  Jones  had  got  a  holiday  to  see  his 
grandmother  in  Paddington,  the  porters  were  out  on 
their  duty,  and  I  was  alone  in  the  shop.  Mr.  Hug- 
gins  had  attended  a  city  dinner  the  evening  before, 
but  he  rose  in  time  to  superintend  the  unpacking 
of  a  magnificent  turbot  sent  express  from  Brighton 
for  the  glory  of  his  establishment.  Turbot  were 
particularly  dear  that  season. 

This  was  one  of  the  finest  specimens  ever  caught ; 
so  Mr.  Sampson  triumphed  over  surrounding  fish- 
mongers, wished  Sir  Joseph  could  only  see  it,  and 
retired  to  shave — an  operation  which  he  always 
performed  in  the  back  parlor.  As  for  me,  my  ap- 
prentice pride  was  high.  I  had  set  forth  the  splen- 
did fish  where  it  could  be  seen  to  the  best  advan- 
tage, and  early  as  it  was  (not  yet  nine  in  the  morn- 
ing) a  sort  of  crowd  had  collected  to  gaze  at  it.  I 
20 


HOW"  THE  FISHMONGER  WAS  TAUGHT  CIVILITY.    263 

felt  myself  magnified  in  that  turbot,  and  was  won- 
dering which  of  my  master's  grand  customers  would 
buy  the  fish,  when  a  little  old  man,  looking  decided- 
ly shabby,  in  an  old  beaver  hat  and  gray  overcoat, 
paused  at  the  door,  took  a  long,  keen  look,  and 
walked  in.  What  could  such  a  person  want  in  our 
shop  ?  I  had  half  made  up  my  mind  to  say  we 
did'nt  keep  such  things,  if  he  asked  for  smoked 
herrings  or  a  lobster  ;  and  fairly  laughed  out  when 
pointing  to  the  splendid  fish,  he  inquired,  "  What's 
the  price  of  that  turbot  ?" 

"  Too  dear  for  you,  old  fellow  !"  said  I,  moving 
from  my  stand.  "  But  we  have  cod  and  haddock 
here" 

"  I  asked  you  the  price  of  the  turbot,  child," 
said  the  old  man,  quietly. 

"  Only  five  guineas !  Will  you  take  it  home  under 
your  arm?"  said  I,  wishing  my  master  to  know  what 
smart  things  I  could  say,  as  he  had  often  com- 
mended my  wit  ;  and  not  only  was  every  word  au- 
dible through  the  thin  partition,  but,  by  means  of 
a  glass  pane  and  a  small  mirror,  Mr.  Huggins  could 
see  all  that  went  on. 

"  Boy,  does  your  master  keep  you  to  offer  im- 
pertinence to  customers  ?"  said  the  old  man,  get- 


264    HOW  THE  FISHMONGER  WAS  TAUGHT  CIVILITY. 

ting  warm.  "  Go  and  tell  Mr.  Huggins  I  wish  to 
see  him." 

"  He  is  too  busy  to  attend  the  like  of  you,"  I 
would  have  said  ;  but  at  that  moment,  with  a  face 
half  shaved  and  soapy,  out  rushed  my  master,  ex- 
claiming, "You  young  jackanapes,  I'll  teach  you 
to  talk  so  to  Sir  Joseph  ;"  and  seizing  me  by  the 
collar,  he  cuffed  me  soundly  and  shoved  me  into 
the  street.  The  boys  began  to  shout  and  the  crowd 
to  thicken.  I  had  no  chance  but  to  run  home  and 
tell  my  mother. 

On  my  way  I  saw  a  handsome  carriage  with  two 
footmen  drive  up  to  the  shop,  and  when  my  mother 
went  to  intercede  for  me,  she  learned  that  Sir  Jo- 
seph had  bought  the  turbot  for  a  great  dinner,  at 
which  the  king  and  queen  were  to  be  present.  In 
all  his  tales  of  grandeur  and  fish-buying,  my  master 
had  forgotten  to  mention  that  his  patron  sometimes 
went  about  streets  and  shops  in  very  plain  attire, 
and  my  gentility  never  imagined  that  the  great  Sir 
Joseph  Banks  could  be  seen  in  an  old  coat  and  a 
shabby  beaver. 

My  mother's  intercession  was  successful — per- 
haps through  the  sale  of  the  turbot.  Mr.  Huggins 
consented  to  take  me  back  without  further  punish- 


HOW  THE  FISHMONGER  WAS  TAUGHT  CIVILITY.    265 

ment,  though  at  first  he  talked  of  cancelling  the 
indentures  and  making  an  example  of  me.  How- 
ever, my  former  place  in  his  favor  was  never  re- 
gained. From  that  day  William  Jones  became  the 
genteel  boy,  and  the  hearer  of  his  greatest  stories. 

The  neighboring  apprentices  knew  that  I  "had 
been  cuffed  for  giving  sauce  to  Sir  Joseph  Banks," 
and  when  the  baronet  or  any  of  his  servants  came 
to  the  shop  I  felt  ready  to  hide  in  a  herring-barrel. 
In  short,  the  day  of  the  great  turbot,  which  began 
in  such  pride,  left,  like  man's  proud  days,  a  long 
train  of  petty  vexations  behind  it ;  but  it  helped  to 
teach  me  that  civility  should  not  be  governed  by 
appearances,  and  the  wisdom  of  that  text  which 
says,  "Honor  all  men." 

Here  my  uncle's  story  closed ;  and,  readers,  it 
is  a  fact  to  which  some  old  residents  in  the  city  of 
London  could  even  yet  testify.  All  the  names  are 
of  course  altered ;  excepting  that  of  the  celebrated 
naturalist ;  and  I  have  written  it,  in  hopes  that  some 
of  the  young  or  old  may  likewise  learn  by  the  same 
lesson  which  taught  my  uncle  civility. 


23 


GREAT  INVENTIONS. 

My  cousin,  Tom  Fairfax,  is  a  youth  of  a  deci- 
dedly mechanical  turn.  He  is  always  building  little 
mills  to  go  by  wind  or  water,  or  making  curious 
models  of  machines,  or  turning  with  a  lathe  which 
he  has,  little  ivory  or  box-wood  ornaments,  or  uten- 
sils for  his  mother  or  sisters.  He  has  a  little  work- 
shop over  the  stable,  with  a  carpenter's  bench  and 
tools ;  and  his  father  permits  him  to  employ  his 
leisure  hours  in  this  way. 

At  school  he  applies  himself  very  diligently  to 
his  studies,  especially  to  the  mathematics,  in  which 
he  is  already  quite  a  proficient  for  one  of  his  years. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  he  will  distinguish  himself 
at  some  future  time  ;  because  the  bent  of  his  mind 
towards  mechanical  invention  is  decided,  and  he 
(266) 


GREAT  INVENTIONS.  267 

will  be  afforded  ample  means  to  "go  ahead,"  when 
he  has  finished  his  college  course. 

Others  have  succeeded  under  more  discourag-ina- 
circumstances  ;  Jacquard,  for  example.  His  story 
will  interest  my  readers,  and  I  proceed  to  give  it 
in  a  brief  way,  as  it  may  serve  to  encourage  others 
in  a  career  of  useful  exertion. 


THE  LYONESE  WEAVER. 

Marie  Joseph  Jacquard,  whose  name  has 
gained  a  well-earned  celebrity,  was  born  at  Lyons, 
on  the  7th  of  July,  1752.  His  father  was  a  weaver 
of  brocade  stuffs,  and  his  mother  worked  in  the 
same  establishment,  as,  what  was  technically  called, 
"reader  of  designs."  Her  business  was  to  point 
out  to  the  workmen  the  threads  which  were  to  be 
used  in  succession  for  tinting  the  stuffs.  About 
this  period  the  manufacture  of  silk  in  Lyons  had 
received  great  extension.  Crowds  of  sturdy  agri- 
culturalists from  the  fertile  banks  of  the  Rhone 
flocked  into  the  city,  and  often  died  prematurely 
from  the  effects  of  a  sedentary  occupation,  and  the 
foul  air  of  over-crowded  workshops.  Those  who 
survived,  usually  became  owners  of  looms ;  but 
even  then  their  savings  Avere  often  swallowed  up  by 
too  bold  speculations  ;  they  once  more  worked  for 
others,  and  generally  ended  their  days  in  a  hospital. 
(268) 


THE  LYONESE  WEAVER.  269 

At  the  time  of  Joseph  Jacquard's  birth,  his  fa- 
ther's circumstances  were  flourishing ;  he  had  pur- 
chased a  loom,  and  when  the  boy  grew  old  enough 
he  sent  him  to  school,  instead  of  condemning  him 
to  the  lot  which  usually  awaited  the  children  of 
weavers — an  early  apprenticeship  to  the  unhealthy 
labors  of  the  workshop. 

The  old  teacher  to  whom  Joseph  was  sent,  could 
teach  nothing  but  reading.  That  the  boy  soon  ac- 
quired, and  the  father  seeing  him  as  learned  as  his 
tutor,  desired  him  to  select  a  trade.  He  chose  that 
of  a  bookbinder,  and  in  his  master's  house  there 
lodged  an  old  man,  a  land-surveyor's  clerk,  who 
struck  with  the  boy's  intelligence,  taught  him  in 
the  evenings  the  first  elements  of  mathematics. 

The  young  apprentice  was  then  about  thirteen 
years  old,  and  his  taste  for  mechanics  was  shown 
by  a  number  of  curious  little  inventions,  which,  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  displaying  to  his  old  friend. 
One  evening  when  he  had  finished  constructing  a 
coach  out  of  a  few  old  cards,  the  clerk  said  to  him : 

"  Joseph,  is  there  any  other  trade  which  would 
suit  you  better  than  that  of  a  bookbinder  ?"     \ 

"Ah  !  there  is  indeed,"  replied  the  boy. 

"What  is  it?" 

23* 


270         THE  LTONESE  WEAVER. 

Joseph,  rubbed  bis  forehead  in  perplexity,  and 
after  a  few  moments  said : 

"  The  misfortune  is,  that  my  father  is  not  rich : 
if  he  were,  I  could  get  tools  and  instruments  of  all 
kinds,  and  if  I  had  a  forge  and  workmen  at  com- 
mand, I  am  certain  that  I  could  invent  some  new 
machinery." 

"  Have  you  the  idea  of  any  new  invention  in  your 
head  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Jacquard.  "  The  other  day,  hap- 
pening to  enter  the  cutler's  shop  opposite,  I  saw 
an  hour  occupied  in  passing  the  blade  of  a  knife 
through  the  hands  of  three  workman.  One  sharp- 
ening the  edge,  another  polishing  the  blade,  and  a 
third  piercing  holes  in  the  handle.  After  consider- 
ing, I  thought  of  a  piece  of  mechanism  which 
would  do  it  all  in  five  minutes.  If  I  could  choose, 
I  think  I  should  like  to  be  a  cutler." 

It  was  late  at  night,  when  the  elder  Jacquard, 
uneasy  at  his  son's  prolonged  absence,  came  to  seek 
him  in  the  clerk's  apartment.  He  found  him  occu- 
pied in  explaining  the  details  of  the  machine  to  his 
old  friend,  who  was  listening  with  breathless  atten- 
tion, and  who  placed  his  finger  on  his  own  lips  to 
enjoin  silence  on  the  visitor. 


THE  LYONESE  WEAVER.  271 

Joseph  continued  his  demonstration  without  per- 
ceiving; his  father's  entrance,  and  soon  the  latter 
shared  the  clerk's  admiration  of  the  boy's  earnest 
and  unchildlike  eloquence.  It  was  not  difficult  to 
gain  his  consent  to  Joseph's  becoming  a  cutler.  It 
happened  unfortunately,  however,  that  his  new 
master  was  both  dull  and  ignorant,  and  mocked  at 
the  idea  of  any  new  invention. 

Jacquard  soon  got  tired  of  his  position,  and  pre- 
vailed on  his  father  to  place  him  with  a  founder  of 
printing  types.  He  soon  displayed  his  rich  inven- 
tive powers  in  his  new  occupation ;  but  the  death 
of  his  father,  who  left  him  the  legacy  of  two  work- 
ing looms,  caused  him  once  more  to  change  his  oc- 
cupation. At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  found  himself 
at  liberty  to  spend  his  time  in  inventing  various 
improvements  in  the  art  of  weaving.  But,  unhap- 
pily, money  began  to  fail ;  all  his  father's  prudent 
savings  were  spent,  and  Jacquard,  who,  like  too 
many  geniuses,  was  thoughtless  and  improvident, 
began  seriously  to  think  he  had  been  robbed.  He 
sold  his  looms  to  pay  his  debts ;  and  then,  when  he 
he  had  nothing  left,  he  committed  what,  under  the 
generality  of  circumstances,  would  have  proved  a 
most  disastrous  step,  for  him  at  the  present  time, 


272  THE  LYONESE  WEAVER. 

by  entering   on  marriage  "with   a  girl  as  needy  as 
himself. 

Notwithstanding  its  unpromising  auspices,  how- 
ever, this  marriage  proved  a  happy  one.  The  young 
wife  was  affectionate,  self-denying,  and  so  good  a 
manager  of  their  slender  income,  that  Jacquard, 
who  was  constantly  absorbed  in  his  mechanical  re- 
veries, allowed  himself  to  be  fed  like  a  child,  with- 
out thinking  or  inquiring  whence  the  means  of  sup- 
port were  derived.  But  at  length  a  day  came  when  no 
food  was  to  be  had.  Jacquard,  during  the  previous 
week,  had  earned  nothing ;  all  his  wife's  little  or- 
naments were  sold,  and  even  the  house  in  which 
they  lived  was  now  the  property  of  another.  Ma- 
dame Jacquard  had  just  been  confined  with  her  first 
child,  and  obtained  from  the  purchaser  of  the  house 
permission  to  remain  in  it  for  a  short  time,  until 
her  health  should  be  re-established. 

Stern  necessity  aroused  Jacquard  from  his  dreams. 
With  great  difficulty  he  obtained  employment  as  a 
lime  burner,  while  his  wife  worked  as  a  straw  bon- 
net maker.  During  several  succeeding  years  we 
possess  few  authentic  details  of  the  life  of  Jacquard. 
He  was  at  Lyons  during  the  stormy  period  of  the 
revolution,  suffering  from  many  perils  and  much 


THE  LYONESE  WEAVER.  273 

poverty ;  the  latter  evil  effectually  preventing  him 
from  executing  a  plan  for  an  improved  loom,  which 
had  long  been  revolving  in  his  brain. 

In  the  year  of  1810,  he  obtained  employment 
from  an  intelligent  silk  manufacturer,  who  kindly 
advanced  money  for  him  during  the  time  that  the 
construction  of  the  machine  would  require.  In  the 
commencement  of  the  next  year  he  had  the  happi- 
ness of  exhibiting  his  loom  at  the  "Exhibition  of 
National  Industry"  and  obtained  a  bronze  medal, 
for  what  was,  after  all,  but  a  rudimental  outline  of 
of  what  he  subsequently  accomplished. 

Shortly  afterwards,  while  patiently  laboring  in 
his  obscure  garret,  he  was  honored  by  a  visit  from 
the  minister  Carnot,  who,  having  seen  the  new  loom, 
came  thus  in  person  to  express  his  satisfaction  to  its 
maker.  The  object  of  the  invention,  and  which  is 
now  amply  accomplished  by  the  perfected  Jacquard 
loom,  was  to  substitute  machinery  for  a  number  of 
human  workers,  condemned  by  the  very  nature  of 
their  unhealthy  employment  to  premature  decline 
and  death. 

In  1802,  Jacquard  went  to  Paris,  led  thither  by 
the  following  circumstance.  The  Society  of  Arts 
in  London,  and  also  that  in  Paris,  had  offered  a 


274  THE  LYONESE  WEAVER. 

prize  for  the  invention  of  any  process  by  which  the 
making  of  fishing-nets  and  quarter-netting  for 
ships  might  be  facilitated.  During  a  quiet  country 
■walk  one  evening,  Jacquard  invented  the  theory 
of  the  desired  improvement. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  he,  next  morning,  to  his 
employer,  "  that  I  have  thought  of  a  method  of 
making  nets,  without  the  use  of  a  shuttle,  by 
means  of  a  machine,  which  will  cost  but  a  hundred 
crowns  ?" 

The  manufacturer,  who  had  become  his  friend, 
desired  him  to  explain  the  process ;  and  its  sim- 
plicity was  so  great,  that  Jacquard  spoke  of  it  as 
a  thing  which  any  one  might  discover. 

"Well,  Jacquard,"  said  his  master,  "you  must 
try  for  the  prize." 

"Oh!"  replied  Joseph,  "it  would  not  be  worth 
while  for  such  a  trifle.  I  have  much  more  im- 
portant inventions  in  my  head." 

His  employer,  however,  insisted,  and  advanced 
the  necessary  money;  and  in  three  weeks  the 
machine  was  completed. 

In  a  few  days,  Jacquard  received  a  summons 
from  the  Prefect  of  Lyons.  He  obeyed  the  call, 
and  was  introduced  into  a  private  room. 


THE  LYONESE  WEAVER.  275 

"Ah!  Jacquard,"  said  the  Prefect,  "I  hear 
that  you  have  invented  an  ingenious  method  of 
weaving  nets  without  using  a  shuttle ;  and  as  it  is 
my  duty  to  make  known  to  the  government  every 
thing  that  may  concern  the  promotion  of  national 
industry,  I  request  that  you  will  write  for  me  a 
description  of  the  process,  and  I  will  immediately 
forward  it  to  Paris." 

"But,  Monsieur,"  replied  Joseph,  "I  never 
composed  a  written  Sentence  in  my  life,  and  how, 
then,  could  I  write  what  you  require  ?  But  if  you 
like  to  send  for  the  machine  (two  men  will  easily 
bring  it,)  I  can  explain  its  construction  by  word 
of  mouth ;  and  then  you  can,  if  you  wish,  ivrite  a 
description  of  it." 

"  An  excellent  plan,"  said  the  Prefect.  And  in 
less  than  two  hours  the  machine,  in  all  its  effective 
simplicity,  was  in  full  operation  beneath  the  Pre- 
fect's eyes :  he  himself  had  the  pleasure  of  weaving 
several  rows  of  meshes.  An  accurate  description 
was  sent  to  Paris,  and  in  a  fortnight  Jacquard 
received  a  peremptory  order  from  the  agent  of  the 
secret  police  to  follow  him  to  the  great  city.  No 
explanation  of  the  motive  of  this  enforced  journey 
was  given  by  his  guide ;   and  he  passed  the  first 


276  THE  LYONESE  WEAVER. 

night  after  his  arrival  in  the  dwelling  of  the  min- 
ister of  police.  Next  morning,  this  official  con- 
ducted him  to  the  Tuilleries,  when  they  were  im- 
mediately introduced  into  a  room  occupied  by  a 
gentleman  seated  at  a  table. 

"Is  your  name  Jacquard?"  said  this  latter. 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"  Do  you  know  me  ?" 

"No,  Monsieur,  I  don't  remember" 

"I  am  the  Emperor—  sit  down." 

At  these  unexpected  words,  Jacquard  stood 
speechless. 

"  Come,  my  friend,  be  seated,"  said  the  Empe- 
ror, with  a  benevolent  smile ;  and  the  artisan  fell, 
rather  than  placed  himself,  on  a  chair.  The  min- 
ister of  police  remained  standing. 

Then  commenced  a  long  and  earnest  conversa- 
tion between  the  poor  workman  and  the  master  of 
France.  It  was  a  part,  and  not  the  least  success- 
ful one,  of  Napoleon's  policy,  to  speak  with  frank 
and  cordial  familiarity  to  his  humblest  subjects. 
Jacquard  soon  felt  completely  at  his  ease ;  he 
explaine  1  his  ideas  of  mechanical  invention  as 
freely  as  if  he  had  been  conversing  with  an  equal, 
and  even  smiled  and  and  shook  his  head  when  the 


THE  LYONESE  WEAVER.  277 

Emperor,  in  his  eagerness  to  jump  to  a  conclusion, 
hazarded  some  erroneous  conjecture. 

The  interview  lasted  two  hours,  during  which 
but  little  was  said  of  the  netting  machine,  and  a 
great  deal  as  to  the  projected  improvements  in 
silk  weaving.  At  its  close,  the  Emperor  took 
Jacquard's  hand,  pressed  it  cordially,  and  said : — 
"  Your  ideas  are  excellent,  and  must  be  applied : 
remain  at  Paris,  and  study  machinery.  You  shall 
have  rooms  at  your  disposal  at  the  Institute  of 
Arts  and  Manufactures,  and  will  be  in  constant 
communication  with  men  who  can  teach  you  what- 
ever you  require  to  learn.  But  remember  that 
your  genius  ought  to  invent  things  far  beyond  its 
present  scope.  When  I  had  you  conveyed  hither 
as  a  prisoner,  all  I  knew  of  you  was,  that  you  had 
invented  a  machine  for  which  England  had  offered 
a  reward.  I  did  not  wish  that  she  should  profit  in 
the  smallest  degree  by  the  genius  of  our  French 
workmen.  Now  I  know  you,  Jacquard ;  you  will 
devote  your  labors  to  the  service  of  France,  and 
I  shall  not  forget  you." 

Once  installed  at  the  Conservatory  of  Arts  and 
Manufactures,  our  hero  concentrated  all  his  powers 
in  seeking  to  accomplish  his  great  aim — that  of 
24 


278  THE  LYONESE  WEAVER. 

substituting  mechanical  agency  for  the  labours  of 
a  multitude  of  workers,  condemned  by  the  nature 
of  their  occupation  to  physical  suffering  and 
moral  degradation. 

Amongst  the  machines  preserved  at  the  Conser- 
vatory, was  an  imperfect  model  designed  by  Vau- 
canson.  It  consisted  of  a  cylinder  perforated  with 
holes,  which  allowed  to  pass,  or  impeded,  according 
to  the  holes  which  it  presented,  needles  causing  to 
deviate  the  threads  of  the  warp,  and  thus  formed 
a  pattern  in  the  weft.  The  sight  of  this  machine, 
unfinished  as  it  was,  and  hitherto  regarded  as 
merely  an  object  of  curiosity,  suggested  a  new 
idea  to  Jacquard.  To  Vaucanson's  cylinder,  he 
added  a  pasteboard  spiral  pierced  with  holes, 
through  which  the  threads  of  the  warp  passed  to 
the  weaver  ;  thus  dispensing  with  the  intervention 
of  the  thread-drawer.  He  also  added  an  ingeni- 
ous contrivance  for  showing  the  weaver  the  color 
of  the  shuttle  which  he  was  to  throw ;  thus  ren- 
dering superfluous  the  employ  of  a  reader  of 
patterns. 

When  Jacquard  had  finished  his  loom,  the  first 
use  he  made  of  it  was  to  weave  several  ells  of  rich 
tissue  as  a  present  to  the  Empress  Josephine.     It 


THE  LYONESE  WEAVER.  279 

is  said  that  Napoleon  came  in  person  to  the  Con- 
servatory, to  express  his  lively  satisfaction :  it  is 
certain,  at  all  events,  that  he  showed  it,  by  em- 
ploying expert  workmen  to  construct  on  Jacquard's 
model  several  beautiful  looms,  which  he  presented 
to  their  inventor.  Jacquard  returned  to  Lyons,  and 
me  improvements  were  speedily  adopted  there  by  the 
principal  manufacturers.  There  speedily,  however, 
hroke  out  a  tumult  among  the  workmen.  They 
complained  that  the  use  of  machinery  deprived  them 
of  the  use  of  bread ;  totally  forgetting  that  the  vast 
impetus  given  thereby  to  their  trade,  must  cause 
tlie  employment  of  a  double  number  of  operatives. 
But  mobs  never  listen  to  reason ;  and  poor  Jac- 
quard, so  far  from  meeting  honor  in  his  own  city, 
was  doomed  to  see  his  looms  torn  into  pieces, 
"the  iron  sold  for  old  iron,  and  the  timber  for  fire- 
wood," So  he  said  himself  when  speaking,  at  the 
age  of  eighty,  before  the  Chamber  of  Commerce ; 
and  he  uttered  the  words  in  a  voice  of  the  deepest 
emotion.  Nor  was  this  the  worst ;  three  times  he 
narrowly  escaped  with  his  life ;  on  one  occasion 
being  menaced  with  a  watery  grave  in  the  Rhone, 
and  being  saved  almost  by  a  miracle.  Truth  and 
right,  however,  generally  prevail.     The  increase 


280         THE  LYONESE  WEAVER. 

of  the  silk  trade  in  Lyons,  the  opulence  of  its  con- 
ductors, and  the  number  of  persons  employed,  be- 
came shortly  so  great,  that  in  a  very  few  years  the 
people  who  had  vowed  vengeance  against  Jacquard, 
carried  him  in  triumph  through  the  streets,  while 
celebrating  the  anniversary  of  his  birth. 

It  was  not  long  before  England,  and  then  the 
■whole  world,  adopted  the  Jacquard  loom. 

We  must  not  forget  to  make  honorable  mention 
of  two  master  weavers,  Depouilly  and  Schirmer,  and 
the  machinist  Breton.  They  encouraged  and  sup- 
ported Jacquard  during  the  sharp  struggle  in  whic'a 
he  had  been  nearly  overcome.  "  These  men,"  said 
Jacquard,  "  have  become  rich  through  my  inven- 
tion, and  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  remain  poor,  but  I  do 
not  complain :  it  suffices  me  that  I  have  been  use- 
ful to  my  countrymen." 

A  patent  was  taken  out  for  the  loom,  and  Jac- 
quard was  with  difficulty  persuaded  to  make  use  of 
it ;  neither  could  he  ever  be  prevailed  on  to  prose- 
cute offenders.  When  the  municipal  council  of 
Lyons  proposed  to  him  to  devote  his  entire  time 
and  labour  to  the  service  of  their  town,  and  to  be- 
stow on  it  all  the  future  improvements  which  his 
genius  might  devise,  he  hesitated  not  to  comply, 


THE  LYONESE  WEAVEK.         281 

and  accepted  in  return  only  a  very  moderate  com- 
pensation of  his  own  naming.  These  few  facts 
strongly  attest  his  disinterestedness. 

At  the  age  of  seventy,  Jacquard  retired  to  the 
village  of  Ouillins,  his  father's  native  place.  There, 
in  1820,  he  received  the  decoration  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor ;  and  lived  happy  and  respected  until  the 
year  1834,  when  he  expired  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
two.  A  fine  statue  of  Jacquard  has  since  been 
erected  by  public  subscription  at  Ouillins. 


This  account  of  Jacquard  carries  its  own  moral 
with  it.  He  was  a  pattern  of  disinterestedness, 
and  the  desire  to  be  useful. 

The  French  story  which  I  shall  now  give  to  the 
reader  is  not  less  impressive.  It  illustrates  the 
great  law  of  Christianity — the  law  of  kindness — 
the  golden  rule,  to  do  to  others  as  we  would  that 
they  should  do  unto  us. 

24* 


THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  small  town  of  Thaun,  by 
the  side  of  the  road  -which  leads  to  Mulhausen, 
stands  a  building  which  partakes  of  the  character 
of  a  farm-house  and  of  the  habitation  of  a  trades- 
man. In  the  yard,  where  chickens  are  picking  and 
scratching  at  random,  and  in  a  rick  of  corn  still 
entire,  near  which  is  a  cart  recently  detached  from 
the  horse,  one  recognises  the  farm ;  while  the 
white  curtains  to  each  window,  the  garden  with  its 
arbor  of  painted  trellis-work,  and  the  six  stone 
steps  with  the  iron  balustrade  which  lead  to  the 
entrance  as  decidedly  mark  the  abode  of  a  citizen. 

On  the  stone  steps  was  seated  Jacques  Ferron, 
the  master  of  the  house,  whose  appearance  partook 
of  the  same  double  character  as  his  dwelling.  He 
wore  the  blouse  of  the  artsian,  with  the  velvet  cap 
and  slippers  of  the  proprietor.  Jacques  was  ex- 
(282) 


THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR.  283 

pecting  his  son  Stephen,  who  had  gone  to  Mul- 
hausen  with  his  bethrothed  to  buy  wedding  pre- 
sents ;  and  as  the  father  kept  his  eye  on  the  road, 
his  mind  dwelt  upon  this  marriage,  which  settled 
his  son  near  him  and  assured  him  of  pleasant 
society  in  his  old  age. 

The  noise  of  a  char-a-banc  disturbed  at  last  the 
reverie  into  which  he  had  fallen,  and  he  recognised 
the  travellers  in  the  midst  of  the  clouds  of  dust 
which  surrounded  the  horse  and  carriage.  When 
they  arrived  at  the  gate  of  the  yard  in  front  of 
the  house,  Perron  advanced  to  meet  them,  and  was 
saluted  by  the  joyful  exclamations  of  the  travel- 
lers. These  were  Madame  Lorin  and  her  daughter, 
and  a  young  man,  who  was  almost  entirely  con- 
cealed behind  the  bandboxes  and  packets. 

"  Good  night,  father,"  said  Louise,  who,  by  an 
act  of  affectionate  courtesy,  anticipated  in  her 
salutation  to  the  old  builder  the  appellation  to 
which  he  would  not  be  entitled  for  some  days. 

"  Good  evening,  my  child,"  replied  Ferron,  ex- 
tending his  hands  to  the  young  girl,  and  embracing 
her.  "Your  servant,  Madame  Loring,"  he  added 
to  her  elder  companion.  "  Why,  you  are  laden 
like  a  market  cart." 


284      THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR. 

"  Oh,  this  is  comparatively  nothing,"  said  the 
mother  of  Louise;  "if  we  had  attended  to  your 
son,  we  should  have  almost  emptied  the  shops." 

Ferron  smiled  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Stephen, 
who  had  just  descended  to  open  the  yard  gate  and 
admit  the  char-a-banc.  "  I  understand,"  said  he  ; 
"  we  like  to  make  those  we  love  comfortable ;  if  we 
could  do  as  we  please,  they  should  walk  on  velvet ; 
you  must  not  contradict  his  humor." 

"  Exactly  so ;  but  we  must  not  let  his  humor  be 
his  ruin,"  replied  the  mother. 

The  builder  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  ex- 
claimed: "Bah!  will  not  Stephen  have  all  my 
savings,  to  say  nothing  of  what  he  earns  by  his 
own  building  speculations  ?  for,  now  he  is  a  master, 
I  have  no  doubt  but  he  will  get  on;  and  as  to 
industry,  that's  in  the  blood." 

And  kindness  and  generosity  also,  I  hope," 
continued  Madame  Lorin;  "for  I  have  not  for- 
gotten, M.  Ferron,  that  my  daughter  and  I  owe 
every  thing  to  you ;  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
credit  that  you  formerly  gave  me " 

"Don't  speak  of  that,  I  entreat,"  abruptly  in- 
terrupted Jacques,  visibly  embarrassed;  "you 
must  require   refreshment.      Come,  Louise,  you 


THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR.  285 

must  do  the  honors  of  your  new  home,  my  child ; 
I  know  nothing  about  receiving  guests." 

The  young  girl,  who  had  rejoined  Stephen,  and 
who,  under  pretence  of  assisting  him  to  unharness 
his  horse,  had  stuck  a  flower  in  his  button-hole, 
immediately  left  them,  and  preceded  them  into  the 
sitting-room.  She  laid  the  cloth,  and  brought  all 
that  was  required  with  a  rapidity  which  showed 
that  she  was  familiar  with  the  house.  The  repast 
was  soon  ready.  Stephen,  meanwhile,  in  his 
eagerness  to  welcome  his  betrothed,  quickly  put 
his  char-a-banc  in  the  coach-house  and  the  horse  in 
the  stable,  and  rejoined  his  father,  who  rallied  him 
on  his  promptitude.  The  bandboxes  were  opened 
to  show  the  new  purchases  for  the  bride,  while  ar- 
rangements were  made  for  the  present  and  plans 
laid  for  the  future.  At  last,  the  meal  being  con- 
cluded, the  young  couple  retired  to  the  window, 
where  they  spoke  in  low  tones ;  and  while  they 
were  apparently  engaged  in  watering  a  box  of 
mignionette,  their  parents  arranged  their  future 
settlements. 

Besides  the  customers  and  the  leases  to  which  he 
was  indebted  for  his  comfortable  condition  in  life, 
the  builder  gave  up  to  his  son  all  his  out-standing 


286      THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR. 

debts.  Madame  Lorin,  on  her  part,  gave  to 
Louise  her  household  furniture,  wedding-clothes, 
and  twenty  thousand  francs  payable  on  the  wedding 
day.  This  was  much  more  than  M.  Ferron  ex- 
pected, and  he  said  as  much. 

"  You  may  easily  suppose,"  said  he,  "  how  happy 
it  makes  me  to  see  these  young  people  so  comfor- 
tably off;  to  expose  a  young  couple  to  poverty  is 
like  throwing  wheat  into  the  sewer.  One  must 
not,  as  they  say,  let  the  honeymoon  rise  over  a 
barrel  of  rue  ;  neither  must  we  suffer  the  happiness 
of  the  young  people  to  be  the  misery  of  the  old  ones. 
While  bestowing  a  portion  on  my  son,  I  have  kept 
enough  to  furnish  me  with  three  meals  a  day,  and 
I  should  be  very  sorry  if  the  fortune  you  give  your 
daughter  compels  you  to  make  but  two." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Madame  Lorin,  smiling; 
"I  have  kept  a  proper  part  for  myself.  Besides 
another  sum  of  twenty  thousand  francs,  there  is 
my  business,  which  is  worth  much  more." 

"Well  done!"  exclaimed  Jacques,  surprised; 
"  I  did  not  reckon  upon  marrying  my  son  to  such 
a  fortune.  Do  you  know,  Madam  Lorin,  that  the 
advantage  is  all  on  our  side." 

"Say  rather,"  replied  the  old  lady,  "that  it 


THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR.     287 

comes  from  your  side."  Jacques  would  have  inter- 
rupted her.  "  Oh  !  you  must  not  deny  it,"  she 
continued  eagerly.  "  Do  I  not  owe  all  I  possess 
to  my  business  in  timber  and  iron ;  and  do  I  not 
owe  my  success  in  business  to  the  house  that  you 
built  for  me?" 

"  It  is  our  business,  as  builders,  to  erect  houses," 
rejoined  Ferron. 

"  But  it  is  also  your  business  to  make  people  pay 
for  them  at  the  proper  time,"  replied  the  old  lady; 
"  and  when  my  husband  died  without  having  paid 
what  he  owed  you,  you  would  have  been  justified 
in  taking  possession  of  it." 

"I  intended  to  have  done  so,"  said  Jacques, 
sullenly. 

"And  your  kindness  prevented  you,"  added 
Madame  Lorin. 

Ferron,  who  appeared  ill  at  ease,  tried  in  vain 
to  turn  the  conversation ;  for  the  old  lady  appeared 
determined  to  let  him  know  that  she  had  not  for- 
gotten the  benefit,  and  dilated  upon  the  generous 
conduct  of  the  builder.  If  he  had  not  consented  to 
postpone  a  payment  which  would  have  compro- 
mised her  credit,  the  unhappy  widow  would  have 
been  obliged  to  give  up  every  thing  to  her  credi- 


288      THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR. 

tors,  and  must  have  fallen  into  a  state  of  poverty. 
It  was  to  his  humane  consideration  that  she  owed 
the  easy  circumstances  that  she  then  enjoyed,  as 
well  as  the  happiness  of  the  two  young  people. 
Stephen  and  Louise,  whose  attention  was  attracted 
by  the  old  lady's  voice,  which  she  had  unconsci- 
ously raised,  joined  with  her  in  expressions  of 
gratitude ;  but  the  embarrassment  of  Ferron  ap- 
peared to  increase,  and  he  desired  them  to  be 
silent. 

"  Come,  don't  be  vexed,  papa,"  said  Louise, 
placing  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  coaxing  him. 
"  Nobody  shall  thank  you,  nobody  shall  be  obliged 
to  you,  nobody  shall  say  you  have  a  kind  dispo- 
sition." 

" And  they  will  be  right,"  cried  Jacques.  "I 
am  tired  of  hearing  praise  which  I  do  not  deserve." 

"What!" 

"  Yes !  I  repeat  it.  I  did  not  do  the  thing 
intentionally  ;  it  was  in  consequence  of  an  acci- 
dental occurrence ;  and  for  this  reason  your  praises 
annoy  me.  I  have  stolen  a  reputation  too  long ; 
you  must  now  know  the  truth,  especially  as  it  may 
serve  for  a  lesson  to  the  young  ones." 

The  two  young  people  looked  at  one  another 


•      THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR.  289 

with  surprise,  and  sat  down  on  each  side  of  the 
builder.  Madame  Lorin,  who  had  suffered  some 
expressions  of  incredulity  to  escape  her,  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  him  interrogatively.  At  length,  after  a 
short  pause  to  collect  his  thoughts,  he  began  as 
follows. 

"  Well,  then,  as  our  neighbor  told  you,  M. 
Lorin  died  just  at  the  time  we  were  taking  down 
the  scaffolding  from  his  new  house,  and  his  affairs 
were  in  such  disorder  that  everybody  said,  after 
the  general  winding-up,  the  widow's  whole  fortune 
would  consist  of  her  night-cap.  As  to  myself,  I 
was  not  much  alarmed,  for  the  building  was  suffi- 
cient security  for  my  debt ;  but  it  was  necessary 
to  adopt  legal  precautions  and  to  take  possession, 
for  fear  of  accidents.  Madame  Lorin  did  not  oppose 
my  claim  ;  she  only  explained  to  me  by  what  means 
she  hoped  to  pay  me  every  thing.  But,  in  order  to 
accomplish  this,  it  was  necessary  that  I  should 
leave  her  in  possession  of  the  house,  and  wait  for 
a  return  of  the  profits,  I  knew  not  howT  long,  and 
perhaps  at  the  risk  of  my  own  credit,  for  in  busi- 
ness we  can  only  be  sure  of  what  we  actually  hold 
in  our  hands.  This  was  running  too  much  risk 
without  any  fair  prospect  of  advantage.  In  vain 
25 


290      THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR.' 

did  the  widow  show  me  her  baby  asleep  in  its 
cradle,  entreating  me  with  tears  in  her  eyes  not  to 
make  her  a  beggar.  I  left  her  fully  resolved  to 
take  advantage  of  my  legal  rights.  If  by  this 
means  the  widow  and  orphan  were  ruined,  I  could 
not  help  it ;  they  had,  I  felt,  no  right  to  complain 
of  me,  but  of  circumstances,  to  use  that  common 
but  not  very  true  saying,  over  which  neither  of  us 
had  any  control.  I  had  taken  as  my  motto  the 
words,  'It  is  justice;'  and  having  once  satisfied 
myself  on  this  point,  I  went  forward  without 
troubling  myself  as  to  who  or  what  I  crushed 
under  my  feet. 

"  Besides,  if  the  widow  Lorin  had  a  daughter,  I 
had  a  son  to  bring  up,  and  to  whom  I  was  the  more 
attached,  inasmuch  as  for  six  years  I  had  been 
always  expecting  his  death.  His  constitution  is 
strong  enough  now;  but  at  that  time  it  trembled 
like  a  slight  building  with  every  puff  of  wind. 
Every  one  who  looked  at  him  seemed  to  say,  '  Poor 
little  thing !'  and  this  commiserating  attention 
went  to  my  heart.  The  doctor  who  had  attended 
him  in  his  illness,  said  his  lungs  were  delicate ;  he 
recommended  that  cold  and  damp  should  be 
avoided,  and  said  that  another  attack  of  pleurisy 


THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PKECEPTOR.      291 

would  infallibly  carry  him  off.  So  I  took  the 
same  care  of  him  as  I  should  of  a  bird  in  a  cage ; 
he  never  went  out  but  with  me,  and  in  fine  weather 
I  almost  measured  the  sun  and  wind  before  I 
exposed  him  to  their  influence. 

"  Having  made  up  my  mind  then,  as  I  told  you, 
to  take  possession  of  the  widow's  house  in  satisfac- 
tion of  my  debt,  I  was  just  going  to  Mulhausen  with 
my  papers,  when  the  child  ran  after  me  and  begged 
me  to  take  him  with  me.  There  was  not  a  single 
cloud  in  the  sky,  the  birds  were  singing  in  the 
hedges,  and  the  old  monk,  who  served  me  for  a 
barometer,  had  let  fall  his  hood;  there  was  every 
prospect  of  a  fine  day.  I  put  the  saddle  on  the 
donkey,  and  seated  on  it  the  child,  who  was  pleased 
as  a  cuirassier.  Every  thing  went  well  till  we 
reached  the  town.  The  lawyer  took  my  papers, 
promised  to  make  arrangements  for  putting  me  in 
possession,  and  said  the  house  should  be  mine  before 
six  months  were  over.  I  went  away  overjoyed  at 
this  promise,  and  set  out  to  return  home  with  the 
little  boy  and  the  donkey. 

"  During  the  time  we  were  with  the  lawyer  the 
weather  had  changed  for  the  worse ;  the  wind  began 
to  raise  the  dust  in  eddies  along  the  road,  and  large 


292      THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR. 

clouds  rose  from  behind  the  mountains.  I  hesitated 
a  moment  as  to  whether  I  should  return  on  account 
of  the  child ;  but  he  was  beginning  to  get  tired,  and 
asked  to  go  home.  I  thought  we  should  have  time 
to  get  there  before  the  storm  came  on,  and  walked 
faster  accordingly.  Unhappily,  the  donkey  had 
settled  her  own  pace,  and  she  would  not  be  diverted 
from  it.  In  vain  did  I  call  her  by  her  name  and 
urge  her  on,  she  would  not  hasten  her  steps. 
Stephen  offered  a  cake  by  way  of  encouragement, 
which  she  ate  to  the  last  crumb,  but  went  on 
nevertheless  in  the  old  jog-trot.  I  was  the  more 
provoked  at  the  obstinacy  of  the  animal  because 
the  clouds  had  now  overspread  the  sky,  and  from 
them  there  descended  a  small  cold  rain,  which  the 
wind,  that  was  still  rising  higher,  blew  in  our  faces. 
We  were  too  far  advanced,  however,  to  return,  and 
as  the  clouds  broke  now  and  then,  showing  the 
blue  sky,  I  hoped  it  would  soon  clear  up. 

"Meanwhile,  Stephen,  overcome  by  the  cold, 
began  to  shiver  from  head  to  foot ;  and  the  rain 
having  penetrated  his  summer  clothes,  his  cough 
returned — that  cough  which  the  doctor  so  much 
dreaded.  I  was  now  in  despair.  I  cut  a  stick  from 
the  hedge,  and  struck  the  donkey  furiously ;  she 


THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR.      293 

appeared  indignant,  and  drew  back  ;  I  repeated 
the  blows,  when  she  immediately  lay  down.  At 
that  moment,  the  clouds  seemed  to  burst  all  at 
once,  and  the  rain  came  down  in  torrents.  The 
shivering  child  could  no  longer  speak ;  his  teeth 
chattered,  his  cough  increased,  and  he  moaned 
plaintively.  I  was  quite  bewildered.  Not  knowing 
what  to  do  in  this  extremity,  I  raised  the  boy  in 
my  arms,  pressed  him  to  my  breast,  and  ran  for- 
ward almost  blinded  by  the  rain.  I  sought  for 
shelter  without  knowing  where  to  look  for  it, 
without  indeed  knowing  where  I  was,  when  the 
sound  of  a  horse's  feet  and  of  some  one  calling  to 
me  made  me  turn  my  head.  I  then  noticed  a  car- 
riage which  had  just  stopped.  A  gentleman  with 
white  hair  put  his  head  out  of  the  window. 

" '  What  has  happened  ?  where  are  you  carrying 
that  child  ?'  asked  he. 

" '  Into  the  first  house  where  he  can  receive 
assistance,'  answered  I. 

"  '  Is  he  wounded  V 

" '  No ;  but  the  cold  has  seized  him ;  he  is  just 
recovered  from  illness,  and  this  weather  is  enough 
to  kill  him.' 

"'Let  us  see,'  quickly  rejoined  the  stranger,  'I 
25* 


294      THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR. 

am  a  doctor ;  bring  the  child  here,  and  let  me  look 
at  him.' 

"  He  opened  the  door  of  the  carriage,  and 
received  the  child  streaming  with  wet,  on  his  knees. 
On  seeing  the  child's  face,  and  hearing  him  cough, 
he  could  not  forbear  an  exclamation  of  emotion. 
1  Quick,  quick,'  said  he,  turning  to  some  ladies  who 
were  seated  at  his  side  ;  '  help  me  to  take  off  these 
wet  clothes  ;  we  will  cover  him  with  your  pelisses. 
There  is  danger,  and  the  warmth  must  be  at  once 
recalled  to  the  extremities.  Alfred,  pass  me  the 
phial,  which  you  will  find  in  the  pocket  of  the 
carriage  close  by  you.' 

"  While  he  was  thus  speaking,  he  undressed 
Stephen,  with  the  assistance  of  the  ladies,  and 
began  to  rub  his  body  with  the  contents  of  the 
phial.  When  the  child  appeared  warm,  he  wrapped 
him  up  in  several  garments  which  his  companions 
took  off,  made  a  sign  to  the  young  man  whom  he 
called  Alfred  to  descend  quickly,  and  laid  the  sick 
child  upon  the  cushions.  He  then  turned  to  me, 
inquired  whether  we  were  far  from  my  house,  and 
after  receiving  my  reply,  he  ordered  the  coachman 
to  proceed  gently. 

"  I  thanked  him,  and  followed  close  by  the  door 


THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR.  295 

of  the  carriage.  In  my  anxiety  I  had  quite  for- 
gotten my  donkey,  but  the  young  man  who  had 
left  the  carriage  now  brought  her  to  me.  We  con- 
tinued thus  until  we  arrived  at  Thaun.  The  rain 
continued  to  fall  in  torrents,  but  I  thought  no  more 
of  it.  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  from  the  interior 
of  the  carriage  in  which  the  child  was  lying.  The 
gentleman  with  the  white  hair,  leaning  over  him, 
observed  him  with  attention,  and  watched  his 
slightest  movements.  After  a  time  he  made  a  sign 
to  me  that  all  was  going  on  well.  The  respira- 
tion of  the  child  became  more  free,  and  drops  of 
perspiration  appeared  on  his  face.  At  last  we 
reached  home,  when  the  stranger  himself  carried 
the  little  patient  to  the  bed,  which  he  had  caused 
to  be  warmed,  and  in  a  few  minutes  be  fell  asleep. 
I  endeavored  to  thank  him,  but  he  interrupted  me. 

"  'Don't  think  about  it,'  said  he;  'but  go  and 
change  your  own  clothes ;  perhaps  also  you  will 
permit  my  son  to  do  the  same  ;  here  he  is  coming 
up-stairs.' 

"  The  young  man  immediately  afterwards  en- 
tered, carrying  his  portmanteau.  I  then  recol- 
lected that  he  had  come  on  foot  with  me,  but  in 
my  anxiety  I  had  not  noticed  it. 


296  THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR. 

"  'Oh,  if  the  gentleman  should  be  ill !'  I  exclaimed. 

"<  How  can  that  be  ?'  said  the  old  gentleman; 
'  he  is  young  and  strong ;  with  dry  clothes  and  a 
little  fire  he  will  do  very  well.' 

"  '  But  why  did  he  expose  himself  to  the  rain  ?' 

"  '  Was  he  not  right  in  giving  up  his  place  ?'  re- 
plied the  old  man,  smiling ;  '  would  you  have  the 
man  in  good  health  let  the  sick  child  remain  out  in 
the  rain  V 

u  i  The  carriage  belonged  to  you,'  I  replied,  much 
affected,  '  and  if  you  could  have  kept  your  son  in  it 
instead  of  mine,  I  could  not  have  complained ;  it 
was  but  just.' 

"  The  doctor  looked  at  me,  and  taking  my  hand, 
said  with  friendly  gravity :  '  You  must  not  think  so 
sir.  Be  satisfied  that  there  can  be  no  justice  where 
there  is  no  humanity.' 

"  He  did  not  permit  me  to  reply,  but  sent  me  to 
change  my  clothes.  I  persuaded  him  to  remain 
with  his  family  an  hour  longer,  and  forced  him  to 
accept  some  refreshment ;  he  then  left,  after  having 
reassured  me  of  the  child's  safety.  In  fact,  the  sleep 
of  the  latter  continued  tranquil.  It  was  evident  that 
the  attention  so  seasonably  bestowed  had  arrested 
the  disease  in  the  beginning,  and  had  saved  his  life. 


THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR.      297 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  you  have  ever  known  a 
great  anxiety  followed  by  great  happiness.  The  one 
softens  you,  while  the  other  makes  you  reflect :  you 
seem  pressed  down  by  a  sense  of  deep  obligation  to 
God,  and  long  to  do  something  whereby  you  may 
testify  your  gratitude  for  his  great  favours.  Thus  it 
was  with  me.  I  stood  there  then,  by  the  side  of 
the  child's  bed,  my  heart  full  of  agitation,  thinking 
of  this  kind  family,  and  of  the  beautiful  maxim,  that 
there  is  no  justice  where  there  is  no  humanity,  when 
all  at  once  I  recollected  my  premeditated  treatment 
of  the  Widow  Lorin  and  her  little  girl.  They  also,  in 
their  affliction,  required  assistance,  and  instead  of 
giving  it  to  them  I  remained  shut  up  in  my  rights, 
as  the  unknown  physician  might  have  remained  in 
his  carriage.  The  comparison  touched  my  heart.  It 
was  an  instant  when  emotion  renders  one  impressible 
by  holy  thoughts  and  principles.  I  remembered  the 
declaration  of  the  great  Teacher  on  this  point,  and 
felt  a  conviction  that  if  I  was  without  pity  for  the 
widow,  God  would  not  have  compassion  on  my  boy, 
and  I  should  not  be  allowed  to  retain  him.  This  idea 
took  such  powerful  possession  of  my  mind,  that  al- 
though the  rain  still  continued  to  fall,  I  ran  to  the 
stable,  mounted  my  horse,  galloped  to  Mulhausen, 


£93      THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PRECEPTOR. 

and  reached  the  house  of  the  laywer  just  as  he  was 
going  to  bed.  When  I  told  him  that  I  was  come 
to  take  back  the  papers,  he  thought  me  mad ;  but 
this  did  not  deter  me  from  my  purpose.  As  soon 
as  I  had  them  under  my  arm,  I  felt  pleased  and 
tranquil.  I  returned  to  Thaun  as  fast  as  my  horse 
could  carry  me,  and  found  my  darling  boy  still 
enjoying  a  calm  and  blessed  slumber. 

"  You  know  the  rest.  Instead  of  being  paid  all 
at  once,  I  allowed  Madame  Lorin  ten  years  to  pay 
me  in  ;  and  now  her  business  has  so  increased,  and 
her  daughter  is  so  grown,  that  the  old  lawsuit  is 
going  to  be  turned  into  a  wedding.  Henceforth 
you  will  understand  why,  whenever  you  remind  me 
of  what  I  have  done  for  you,  I  blush  like  a  school- 
girl. Praise  that  is  not  deserved  weighs  heavily 
on  the  heart.  But  now  that  I  have  confessed,  I 
shall  no  longer  be  ashamed ;  for  you  know  that  my 
good  action  does  not  belong  to  me.  I  owe  it  pri- 
marily to  Him  who  is  the  author  of  every  good 
thought  and  holy  purpose,  and  instrumentally  to 
that  excellent  man  whom  I  never  saw  again,  but 
whose  disinterested  kindness  taught  me  to  under- 
stand  what  true  justice  is,  and  who  was  thus  my 
unconscious  preceptor." 


i£2fc 


PITY  THE  IDIOT.      P.  299. 


PITY  THE  IDIOT. 

[Before  taking  leave  of  my  readers,  I  must 
present  them  with  some  verses,  which  my  mother 
has  done  into  English  from  our  old  friend  the 
Scotch  poet.  The  moral  of  the  poetry  will  com- 
mend it  to  all  feeling  hearts.] 

"  Come,  boys,  now  stop  such  cruel  sport ;  for  shame,  for  shame, 

give  over ! 
That  poor,  half-witted  creature  you've  been  fighting  with  this 

hour ; 
What  pleasure  have  ye  seeing  him  thus  lay  his  bosom  bare  ?  — 
Ye  must  not  hurt  the  Idiots — they're  God's  peculiar  care. 

The  wild  flower  seeks  the  shady  dell,  and  shuns  the  moun- 
tain's brow, 

Dark  mists  may  gather  o'er  the  hills,  while  sunshine  gleams 
below : 

But  oh !  the  canker-worm  oft  feeds  on  cheek  of  beauty  fair — 

Ye  must  not  hurt  the  Idiots — they're  God's  peculiar  care. 

The  smallest  things  in  nature  are  weak  as  they  are  small, 
They  take  up  very  little  space — there's  room  enough  for  all ;  , 
And  this  poor,  witless  wanderer,  although  he  is  not  fair — 
Ye  must  not  hurt  the  Idiots — they're  God's  peculiar  care. 

(299) 


300  PITT  THE  IDIOT. 

There's  some  of  you,  may'be,  that  have,  at  home,  a  brother 

dear, 
Whose  helpless,  mournful  cries  ye  cannot  bear  to  hear ; 
And  is  there  one  among  you  but  your  best  with  him  would 

share  ? 
Ye  must  not  hurt  the  Idiots — they're  God's  peculiar  care." 

The  rude  boys  eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  they  gazed  on  one 

another, 
They  felt  what  they  ne'er  felt  before,   '  The  Idiot  was  their 

brother !' 
They  set  him  on  a  sunny  seat,  and  stroked  his  tangled  hair, 
The  reckless  boys  now  truly  felt — he's  God's  peculiar. care." 


And  now,  reader,  for  the  present,  farewell.  If 
the  foregoing  pages  have  proved  entertaining,  per- 
adventure  on  some  future  day,  you  may  hear  again 
from  "  Our  Folks  at  Home." 


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The  Standard  French  and  English  Dictionary  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 

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Kichardson,  etc. ;  and  from  the  Dictionaries  and  works  of  Science,  Literature  and 
Art,  of  Brande,  McCulloch,  Ure,  &c. ;  containing  a  great  number  of  words  not  to  bo 
found  in  other  Dictionaries,  with  the  definition  of  all  technical,  scientific,  and 
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1.  All  the  words  in  general  use,  comprising  those  that  have  sprang  outof  modern 
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5.  The  modification  to  which  they  are  subject  by  the  addition  of  adjectives, 
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C.    G.    HENDERSON    &    CO'S    P  UB  L  I  C  A  T  I  0  N  .  15 


PROFESSOR  COLLOT'S  NEW  DICTIONARY  is  an  origi- 
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